


your certain charms

by deLILAh



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Blowjobs, Light Bondage, M/M, Powerbottom Louis, and zayn is the head wag, even harry's patronus is a pun, louis stole a pair of gemma's socks, niall does not believe in selkies, rimjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 19:45:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1911471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deLILAh/pseuds/deLILAh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>harry potter au. louis is the reserve-reserve seeker, harry is the quibbler’s brightest new voice, and the quidditch world cup is as good a place to stargaze as any.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your certain charms

**Author's Note:**

  * For [genderfluidez](https://archiveofourown.org/users/genderfluidez/gifts).



> hiya! here’s one for chemicalchaos1, who likes festivals, harry potter, and blowjobs. happy summerfest xx
> 
> many many thanks to my beta [alicia](http://www.balanceds.tumblr.com) she is the stars and the moon and everything else good in the world!!! and also thank you leah and ren for organising this!!!
> 
> i do not own one direction or harry potter or aaron ramsey, selkies are not my invention, and the title is from ‘send me down’ by haim.

**Thursday**

***

“All I’m saying is that England, historically, is shit.”

“ _Bobby_.”

“It’s fine, Maura,” Harry says lightly, sipping his tea in what he hopes is a non-confrontational manner.

Gemma, on the other hand, rolls her eyes and kicks him in the shin. “Man up, Haz,” she hisses. “If you look at statistics, maybe, Ireland has won more titles in the last century than England, but it’s all been a fluke,” she proclaims, louder.

“A _fluke_?” Niall demands, loaded fork paused halfway to his mouth.

“Gems—” Harry sighs.

“1994, for example. If they hadn't given Mullet that foul unfairly, Bulgaria would’ve won when Krum caught the snitch.”

“Games aren’t won by catching the fucking snitch, Gemma, don’t be _stupid_ ," Greg scoffs, shaking his head.

“Language,” Denise scolds, and the same time that little Theo giggles, “Fucking.”

Harry can’t help jumping to Gemma’s defence. “Lucky for you lot, too, because Shannon is absolute shite, she’s not caught the snitch for the last four matches—”

“You want to talk about shite players, Styles? Let’s talk about your shoddy excuse for a keeper—”

“Oh, fuck _off_ , Greg, Chambers is just a reserve, Wood’ll be back in time for Saturday—”

“You _hope_ ‘e will, because Bressie’s a bloody force to be reckoned with, you said it yourself the other day, Gems—”

“I did _not—_ ”

“You did you did you did!” Niall crows, his voice slightly muffled by the mouthful of potatoes he’s been shovelling down. “And you, Haz, you said he was really fit, too—”

“Well at least Gemma didn’t cry when Edwards hit that bludger at Palvin during the quarter-final against Hungary!” Harry blurts out.

Silence falls over the Horans’s breakfast table. And then—

“Fuck, Ni, I’m so sorry, that was a low blow.”

“It’s alright,” Niall sighs. “And Bressie _is_ fit, I won’t hold that against you.”

The tense atmosphere around the table dissipates a bit, and everybody turns back to their plates, subdued. It’s early in the morning, not yet half seven, and the whole of the Horan clan, plus Harry and Gemma, are sat having a full breakfast, toast and eggs and sausages and potatoes that Maura’s cooked up for them as a parting gesture. Harry and Niall have to be at the camping grounds by eight to collect their press passes—a sort of superfluous gesture, as they’re reporting for _The Quibbler_ and their editor, Luna, doesn’t even want a piece on the match itself, only on selkies native to Shetland, the Scottish isles where the Cup is being held this year—set up their tent, and gather to photograph the teams fly in. Harry and Niall’d gotten an extra ticket each, and invited Greg and Gemma along for a fun weekend, but, if the bickering over the past twenty-four hours is anything to go by, team loyalty might put a damper on things.

“You know,” Harry clears his throat, addressing the table at large. “I really am just so sorry that it’s had to come to this.”

Gemma, beside him, nods in agreement. “If Ireland were playing literally anybody else, we’d be wearing those really embarrassing shamrock hats and guzzling pints with the best of ‘em. You know that.”

“We do, dear,” Maura assures them. “And we know that this is a big deal for you English. You’ve not won the Cup since the ‘50s, is that right?”

It wasn’t meant as a jab, and, even if it was, it’s _true_ , so Harry nudges Gemma’s shoulder before she can start in again.

“Thanks, Maura,” he says warmly.

“If you’re sure you all won’t kill each other, I think you’d best be off, soon,” Denise announces. Harry checks the watch on his wrist—a nice one with a leather strap that he’d bought himself after he’d gotten his first paycheque, for his expository article on Merpeople in the North American Great Lakes. Four hands whirl around at various speeds, pointing towards moving planets; it’s a quarter to eight.

“It’s just a bit of a friendly rivalry,” Niall assures her, helping three more sausages onto his plate, dumping ketchup over them, and starting to eat them as quickly as he can.

“Some Irishman you are,” Bobby mutters, as Greg and Gemma start to get up to bring their plates to the sink. Harry laughs in spite of himself, and Bobby shoots him a wink.

The Horans are an old wizarding family, like Harry’s own, but their family home in rural Ireland  is a bit more modest that the Styles's posh manor in Cheshire. Nevertheless, Harry, who’s been spending half of his holidays here since he was eleven, has always loved the overgrown estate in Mullingar, especially the kitchen, where they sit now. It’s one of his favourite places in the world, really, what with the peeling wallpaper with its dancing leprechaun pattern, the pots and pans hanging from the ceiling, Maura’s knitting needles constantly clattering on in the corner, worn-out Wellies by the door, and moving photographs—a large number of them featuring Harry and Niall, who’ve been best mates since the very first night of their First Year, when they were newly minted Hufflepuffs with a mutual love for penis jokes and Muggle rock n’ roll—fixed up on the wall near the wooden table with permanent sticking charms. Harry’s twenty, now, been out of Hogwarts and making a name for himself (with Niall by his side) for three whole years, but coming back to Mullingar always makes Harry feel a bit like a kid again.

“Alright, then,” Maura claps her hands, and Harry and Niall’s plates go flying away to join Greg and Gemma’s in the sink. “Do you have everything?”

“I was _eating_ that, mam,” Niall protests.

Maura ignores him, tossing him his rucksack, which is stuffed full, Harry knows, of that Swiss chocolate they’d got last month when they were reporting on Muggle Yeti sightings.

“I think we’re all set, yeah,” Greg nods, slinging his own bag over his shoulder. Harry stands up from the bench and stretches.

“ _Accio_ rucksack,” he yawns. Gemma copies him, and their bags bounce down the steps moments later. Niall gets up from the table and crosses over to the door, grabbing the bag that holds the folded-up tent.  

“Be good,” Denise says. “Try to minimise the drunken brawls.”

“I’ll behave if she does,” Greg teases, nodding at Gemma. Gemma slugs him in the arm good-naturedly.

“I’ll bring back something for ya, kid,” Niall tells Theo. Theo, barely a year old but already hopelessly in love with Niall, claps his hands in excitement.

“Bwoom?” he asks.

Niall laughs, Denise raises her eyebrows in warning.

“Bwoom!” Theo gurgles again. “Unca Ni? Unca Hair?”

“A small one?” Harry pleads.

“You two,” she sighs. “Gonna spoil him rotten.” But she nods in affirmation anyways.

“Alright!” Harry announces. “We’re off, then!”

“To the Cup!” Niall cheers, slinging an arm around his and Gemma’s shoulders and smacking kisses to their temples.

“To the Cup!” everybody echoes, and Harry clutches his bag tightly, turns on his heel, and apparates to the Quidditch World Cup.

***

“Would you rather,” Niall starts, “snog Nearly Headless Nick...or Nick Grimshaw?”

Harry shudders. “Nick Grimshaw from Durmstrang with the hair?”

“Nick Grimshaw from Durmstrang with the hair,” Niall nods gravely.

“Gross,” Harry grimaces. “Neither. I’ll drink.”

“Haz, you’re going to be off your face before quarter past,” Niall says warily, but he passes Harry the flask so he can take his obligatory shot of their cheap firewhisky. It’s just after noon, and they’ve been drinking since the Irish players flew in at ten on their Firebolt Sevens and Bressie gave a short press conference in which he hinted that the team might’ve mastered the Dopplebeater Defence. Two rounds of celebratory (Niall) and anxiety (Harry) shots later, they’d decided they might as well make a game out of it while they waited for England to fly in on their Bluebottle Sevens.

“Would you rather skinny dip with the giant squid...or streak down Diagon Alley?” Harry asks, his tongue pleasantly heavy in his mouth.

Niall looks unimpressed. “We’ve done _both_ of those things.”

Harry tilts his head back to examine the sky. Even though the English players were due to fly in nearly an hour ago, it’s still a clear, empty blue. Harry points his camera up and snaps a picture of an interesting looking cloud. “Yes, but which one would you like to do again?”

“What if we stripped right now?”

Harry casts a glance around at all of the other journalists lined up along the roped-off section, all in their smartest dress robes. They’re clustered together in groups depending on the so-called legitimacy of the publication- reporters from _Which Broomstick?_ crouch down and take shots of the empty sky as if they possess superior journalistic integrity while the journos from the newer sports journal _Hi-Fly_ look on in fascination and admiration, the blokes from _Wizarding Health_ are showing the giggling girls from _Witch Weekly_ the contents of their cameras (it’s probably those photos of Zayn Malik shirtless in the South of France; Harry’s an avid subscriber, when he’s not travelling the world), and _The Daily Prophet_ sports reporter looks to be in deep discussion with the younger girl from _The Mirror of Erised._

Harry and Niall, in jeans and t-shirts and clutching cameras beat-up from various desert treks and mountain climbs, stand at sharp contrast to the simpering glamour, and they stand alone. Harry’s not sure if everybody’s giving them a wide berth because they’re still too shocked that _The Quibbler_ sent journos to the Cup for the first time ever, or if they’re offended by Harry’s tattoos and Niall’s Muggle snapback, or if _The Quibbler_ is still commonly referred to as ‘the lunatic rag’, but he doesn’t much care—he and Niall are used to it. It was like this when they were setting up the tent in the press area earlier this morning, and it’s like this at nearly every organised event that they’ve attended in their three years at _The Quibbler._ In the journalistic hierarchy, it’s not that _The Quibbler_ is at the bottom, it’s just not on the pyramid at all.

“If we stripped right now,” Harry shrugs, “I don’t think anybody would be that surprised.”

“Hey, look!” someone from _The Sunspot_ suddenly calls, and Harry and Niall pause with their hands on the hems of their shirts to look up.

Harry’s breath catches in his throat.

There, high in the air and speeding closer on the fastest brooms around, is the English National Team. As they draw closer, the beginning notes of “God Save the Queen” carry through the air, and Harry lets out a loud whoop of English pride. The fleet is too far off to see individual faces, just yet, but two flag-bearers head the procession, and the union jack flaps proudly above.

“Such a circus,” Niall grumbles, but it’s a grumble of fondness. “Aren’t you going to take pictures?”

“I’m _so_ glad we convinced Luna to let us do this,” Harry grins, before raising his lense to capture the rest of the procession, and then promptly dropping it once he spies Wood in his rightful place at the head of the pack, trademark smirk in place and red and white robes flapping out majestically behind him.

“Fuck, Niall!” he breathes excitedly, tugging on Niall’s arm and pointing up. “He’s back! He’s _back_! I _told_ you, he’s got another year in him!”

“Fuckin’ cunt,” Niall curses. The fleet is closing in, and Harry’s heart soars as he watches the rest of the team close in. Flanking Wood are beaters Edwards and Ramsey, who, between them, have probably smashed a hundred skulls, and behind them the chasers— veteran Bell (Harry remembers when he was younger and she first played for the Harpies, Gemma and he fought over the poster), crowd favourite Teasdale, who’s dyed her hair red and white for the occasion, and Payne, the necessary brawn of the trio, just a little older than Harry and called up from the Falmouth Falcons—and behind them—

Harry’s heart skips three beats.

“Where’s Nelson?” Harry hears Niall ask beside him. “Where’s Jesy Nelson, Haz?”

Jesy Nelson, seeker extraordinaire, is, indeed, missing from the lineup, but that’s not what’s got Harry staring. Because leading the reserve pack, draped in red and white, caramel hair blown back from his face and flying in behind England’s regular reserve seeker, “Gentle Giant” Greg James, is. Well.

“Niall,” Harry says hoarsely. “Niall, I think that’s Louis Tomlinson.”

***

It’s nearly midnight, and Harry and Gemma are attending an exclusive party in a magnificent tent that’s filled with floating fairy lights and England’s elite dressed to the nines, and Harry’s favourite band, the Dragon Tamers, are playing unreleased songs on a stage draped in red and white, and they’re drinking their Beetle Berry Whiskey out of ruby-encrusted goblets, and Harry is _not_ looking for Louis Tomlinson.

“I am _not_ looking for Louis Tomlinson,” he tells Gemma for the umpteenth time, taking a pointed sip of his two hundred year old whiskey **,** and then promptly coughing as it burns his throat. Gemma thumps his back, smug.

“Really?” Gemma raises her eyebrows. “Then why do you keep doing _this?_ ” Gemma stands on her tiptoes and cranes her neck out as far as it will go, peering around the room with comically wide eyes.

  
England’s thrown a World Cup launch party, and Harry and Gemma are stood in a corner, decked out in dress robes and press passes. It’d been an emotional afternoon—Gemma shaken by the news that Jesy Nelson had fallen off her broom and would not recover in time to play on Saturday, and Harry by the fact that Louis Tomlinson had been called up from the Falmouth Falcons to join the reserve team, in place of James, who’ll play the match. It’s a lovely party, and Harry knows that Luna had had to bend over backwards to get them even two tickets, but Harry honestly hasn’t done much but sip champagne in a corner, take two candid shots of Payne and Bell with Prime Minister Shacklebolt, and routinely scan the room for Louis.

Harry rolls his eyes, but flushes. “Fuck off. I’m observing the décor.”

“Oh, of course,” Gemma smirks. “It’s lovely in here, isn’t it? Very avante garde. I especially like that piece by the bar with a nice quiff and blue eyes.”

Gemma downs the rest of her drink elegantly, and Harry scowls at her before surreptitiously checking over his shoulder to see that, fuck, yes, Louis is indeed laughing with Perrie Edwards by the bar. Earlier, Harry’d caught a glimpse of Louis posing for a photograph with Greg James, and an hour ago, Louis had been on the opposite side of the room, shaking hands with the Dragon Tamers’s drummer. Harry hadn’t gone up to Louis then, and he’s not about to now, so he’s not been able to get close enough to see Louis’s face yet, but even from here, Harry can tell that Louis has still got the best arse in England, probably the whole world.

“I’m just taking the piss, Haz,” Gemma laughs, when Harry turns back to face her. “But you know, even if you were, I wouldn’t mind. I watched you pine after him for three years, I can handle another weekend.”

“ _Gemma_ , I did not _pine_.”

Gemma fixes him with an unimpressed look. “Niall said that when Louis was revising for OWLS in the library you used to make him hide behind bookshelves with you and spy on him.”

“That is just _not_ true—”

“Didn’t you write him that song in your Fourth Year? ‘Baby blue eyes, oh watch him fly high—”

“That was about one of the hippogriffs—”

“You wore Cher’s Gryffindor scarf to a Gryffindor-Hufflepuff match once, I remember because Professor Sprout told me you were a traitor in Herbology the next Monday—”

“I always root for the winners, Gryffindor had a better team that year—”

“Oh, please, Harry, you have a Chudley Cannons duvet.’”

Harry hangs his head, defeated. “So I had a crush.”

Louis Tomlinson, two years ahead of Harry at Hogwarts and Gryffindor’s star seeker, had been closer to an obsession than a crush (Harry’s got journals dating from First to Fifth Year with ‘Harry Tomlinson’ scrawled in the margins). Until Fourth Year, Harry’d watched Louis from afar, never even close to a situation where he could talk to him, but when Louis was a Seventh Year he practically failed his mock Astronomy NEWTs. Harry, the fifteen-year-old Hufflepuff who’d somehow managed to befriend the centaurs, had volunteered to help out with remedial Astronomy lessons before he even knew how terrible Louis was at Astronomy. It was, as Harry’d proclaimed to Niall, written in the stars—or, well, it would’ve been, if Harry’d managed to even stutter out a hello to Louis, let alone propose marriage. All the same, Louis had always been kind to Harry, cleaning up his own workspace and thanking Harry for passing him a blank star chart and once even whisper-bitching about Professor Malfoy to Harry, like they were real mates— _A bloody detention for hexing Parker and Sykes in the corridor, I swear, it’s like he’s got_ no _sense of humour_.

But Harry’d been Gemma Styles’s quirky younger brother who singed his own eyebrows off in Charms on two separate occasions, and Louis won the House Cup for Gryffindor and got recruited to the Montrose Magpipes before he could even sit his N.E.W.T.S. Harry spent half of his Sixth Year wallowing and fiddling with Greg’s old radio, trying stream commentary on Louis’s matches, before Niall poured an entire bottle of Ogden’s down Harry’s throat and proclaimed that if fate wanted Harry and Louis to be, their stars would line up again someday, and, until then, Harry should “move the fuck on, probably.” Though crude, it was sound advice and, over the summer, Harry grew into his curls and his dimples and went to Paris with Gemma and kissed a lot of French boys and bid _adieu_ to his first love.

(Maybe not, though, apparently, if a few glimpses of Louis send Harry huddling in a corner at the best party of the year.)

“It’s fine, Haz.” Gemma wraps an arm around Harry’s shoulder comfortingly now, stopping herself before she goes too far. “Did you not _just_ watch me try to talk to Oliver Wood?”

Harry giggles in spite of himself. “That _was_ a bit embarrassing.”

“More than a bit,” Gemma says.

“Harry, Gems,” slurs Niall’s voice all of the sudden, and Harry jumps a bit, then turns to find Niall’s patronus, a hare, shimmering in the air around them. “Hopefully you’re ‘avin’ a laugh at England’s party, but Ireland’s is wild, and the more t’ merrier, so come through soon, will ya? Love you!”

The patronus evaporates.

“We’ve been here for a while,” Gemma starts carefully.

Harry chuckles wryly. “We can go, Gems, it’s alright. ‘M not brave enough to talk to him, anyways.”

Gemma casts him a sympathetic glance, then waves her wand, conjuring up her own sleek black cat. “Tell Niall that we’ll be along in a few minutes,” she says. It nods, and Harry watches forlornly as it slinks away.

“I’m going to go say goodbye to Mum’s friend Astoria, alright? I’ll meet you back here in five.”

“See you soon,” Harry says glumly, as Gemma heads off.

Harry watches her go for a moment, then looks at the remaining contents of his drink, then looks up to scan the room one last time, and—

And he locks eyes with Louis Tomlinson.

“Well douse my arse in firewhiskey and fuck me with a broomstick, is that Harry Styles?”

If Louis had been fit at Hogwarts, with his soft fringe and Gryffindor tie and tight grey trousers, or if he’d looked good from far away today, bent over his broom, robes flapping out behind him and his mouth set in a thin line, right now, up close, in sharp charcoal dress robes and with his hair pushed up into a lovely sort of quiff, he’s radiant. Small and compact, but with a familiar manic energy that seems to crackle out into the air around him, Louis holds his own tumbler of whiskey in one hand, and smiles _the_ crinkly eyed smile up at Harry, as if he even _remembers_ who Harry is, as if he’s _happy_ to see him.

At school, a smile in the corridor or a ‘thanks, mate’ from Louis when Harry refocused Louis’s telescope could set Harry abuzz for days, and now, even though Harry’s no longer fifteen, a virgin, or the leader of the Society for the Promotion of Elvish Welfare, and even though Harry’s not seen Louis in five years, it seems to be back full force.

“Louis,” Harry’s voice nearly sticks in his throat, but Louis seems oblivious to the fact that every nerve in Harry’s body is suddenly alert.

“Thought it was you, from across the room,” Louis says. “But I couldn’t really believe my eyes.”

Harry blinks. “Sorry?”

It might be a pinkish glow cast off by one of the fairies nearby, but Harry almost thinks Louis’s face goes a bit red. “Cause, like you’re, um. Tall, now,” he elaborates.

Harry’s sure that it’s him who’s blushing now. Harry’s been blushing for nearly twelve hours. “Yeah, well. It’s been a while.”

  
Louis throws his head back and laughs the same laugh that used to ring through the corridors and on a constant loop in Harry’s mind, high and clear and made of fucking wind chimes, and Harry’s belly does a familiar swoop. “A while?” Louis asks. “What’s it been, six years?”

“Five, I think,” Harry bites down on his smile.

“Shit,” Louis scratches the back of his neck, and his sleeves ride up, a bit, revealing a sliver of black ink. “When’d we get old?”

“Time flies,” Harry says, and then beams when he realises he’s made a pun. “Get it? Flies? Because, like. We’re at the World Cup, and you’re flying.”

(“There is a _time_ and a _place_ for puns, Harry!” Harry remembers Niall scolding him not a week ago. Looking to photograph an Erkling colony in the Zugspitze mountains, they tried to floo to a friendly inn a little south of Munich, but mispronounced the destination and ended up in the tiny den of an enraged witch from Schweinfurt, in the north.

“Jokes about German sausage are the wurst,” Harry’d said, in an attempt to break the ice.

She chased them out of her house, shooting Bat-Bogey Hexes at their backs and screaming something in German that Harry thinks had something to do with castration.)

Louis’s eyes twinkle. “That was _terrible_ , Harry,” he says, and he sounds almost impressed.

“Knock knock,” Harry blurts, before he can stop himself.

“Who’s there?” Louis leans a bit closer in.

“You know.”

“You know who?”

Harry smirks. “He’s been dead for sixteen years, it’s safe to say Voldemort, now.”

“You little shit!” Louis laughs. “You’ve become a bit of a menace, Styles.”

“You seem pretty much the same,” Harry thinks out loud. “I mean, like, you’re still, I dunno—”

“Loud? Cheeky? Fit?” Louis guesses, then seems to roll his eyes at himself. “Conceited?”

Harry giggles. “No, like. You’re still you.”

Louis’s smile softens at the edges. It still lights up the room, but it feels like it’s only for Harry. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Harry takes a deep breath, looks right into Louis’s blue blue eyes, and says, “It was meant as one.”

“Harry, I’m—Merlin, _Louis_?”

Harry loves Gemma to his bones, but, right now, he’d quite like to give her long, lilac ponytail a solid yank. Her voice snaps Harry out of his Louis trance like ice water dumped over his head, and he nearly falls over trying to side-step quickly enough when she physically cuts across him and pulls Louis in for a huge hug.

“Gems!” Louis’s response is a bit delayed, but he sounds delighted, squeezing her back before releasing her. “Godric, it’s been _ages_.”

“I _know_ ,” Gemma sighs. They’d been in the same year at Hogwarts—different houses, but good enough friends. One summer, while their parents were in Majorca, Gemma threw a party at the bungalow and invited Louis and the rest of the Gryffindors. Harry would’ve flown back from Ireland on one of the Horans’s creaky brooms, but Louis couldn’t make it, in the end.

“How are you, then?” Louis asks. “Getting on alright?”

“Fine,” Gemma waves her hand dismissively. “Teaching potions at Beauxbatons.  Way more interested in what you’ve been up to, though, I can’t _believe_ you could be _playing_ the _World Cup_.”

Louis grins, but Harry’s spent enough time cataloguing all of Louis’s expressions to know that this smile doesn’t quite ring sincere. “I know, it’s mad, innit?”

“Have you seen James playing?” Gemma asks lowly, leaning towards him. “How’s he shaping up? Shannon’s not that good, but I was counting on Nelson.”

“Down girl!” Louis chuckles. “What’ve you got riding on the match, anyways?”

“100 galleons, and a lifetime worth of English pride.” Gemma confesses.

“Fair enough,” Louis nods. “Well. Greg’s incredible. Truly. Played with him for a bit when we were both at Wimbourne, before he got moved up to Puddlemere United. Top lad, too.”

Gemma relaxes. “Yeah, and gorgeous.”

 “Been there, done that. Already got my eye on someone new,” Louis shrugs, shooting Harry a mischievous look. Like, _yeah, bro, I’ve tapped that, gimme five._

Harry’s heart sinks.

He’d thought Louis might’ve been flirting with him, before, but, clearly, months on end of travelling across the globe with only Niall for company have left Harry rusty. ‘You’re tall, now’—Louis really had been commenting on Harry’s height, and, why shouldn’t he have been? Harry’s nearly twice the size he was when Louis knew him, of course he’d been surprised to see Harry all grown up. Louis’s teasing, when Harry made that joke—Louis doesn’t need new guys to fuck, honestly, he’s been with the likes of _Greg James—_ Louis is just looking for a pal, can finally be proper friends with Harry, now that Harry’s not years behind him.

“Nice one,” Harry hears himself say, and he tries not to immediately scan the crowd, look for whatever fit Quidditch player might be next on Louis’s list.

(Liam Payne looks strong enough to lift Louis up over his head and he wears plaid in a much more manly way than Harry, _fuck_ , and Aaron Ramsey is _unfairly_ fit, he’s from Wales, for Christssake, how does he look so clean-shaven and posh?)

Louis gives Harry a strange look. “Uh, thanks, mate.”

 _Mate_.

“Yeah,” Harry nods, shutting down. “Congrats on, um. I. Get in.”

Gemma’s looking at Harry as if he’s grown two heads, but he’s too busy feeling ashamed to really care.

“Right,” Louis says, shaking his head a little as if to snap himself out of something. “Um. Sorry. Enough about me, dull, dull, dull. What are you two even doing here, anyways? Here with your family?”

“Oh, no, we’re here on business, actually,” Gemma says, latching onto the change of subject. “Harry’s got us in with the press!”

“Really?” Louis asks. “Harry Styles, a journo?”

“Not a pap, or anything, and not gonna print any of what you just said,” Harry promises quickly.

“I wasn’t worried,” Louis tells him, surprisingly gentle. “Just surprised! Can’t see you at the Prophet, honestly.”

“‘M at _The Quibbler_ , actually.”

Harry is fully expecting Louis to laugh like everybody else, crack some joke about the Lovegoods, but instead, he visibly brightens.

“Really? A friend of mine was _just_ saying that I needto get a subscription. Said it’s not really a loony rag, anymore, that there’re all these cool pieces about lads trekking across tundras looking for insane beasts and good pubs.”

Harry smiles cautiously. “Seriously?”

“Literally not two days ago,” Louis nods. “That’s your doing, then?”

“Me and Niall, yeah, I guess.”

“Niall? Horan?” Louis asks. “The one who used to frost his tips?”

Harry laughs in spite of himself. “He’ll be glad to know that that’s his legacy.”

 “They’d still be running conspiracies and horoscopes if it weren’t for you,” Gemma boasts on Harry’s behalf.

“I’ll have to check you out, then,” Louis grins up at Harry. “Your stuff, I mean.”

Harry blinks down at him. Harry usually would think this constituted as flirting, but he knows he’s far off the mark, with this one. Why on Earth would Louis flirt with Harry when he spends his days surrounded by fit Quidditch superstars? “Anytime, bro,” Harry manages.

“Right,” Louis nods slowly, still giving Harry an odd look. “I suppose I should go, soon,” he says, louder, to both Harry and Gemma. “Real journalists to talk to, and whatnot.”

“Heyyy,” Harry protests, out of habit. Louis slugs him in the arm, a truly laddy move.

“It was nice catching up with you both,” Louis says. “Hopefully we’ll run into each other again soon?”

Alright, Harry thinks. Maybe he and Louis weren’t written in the stars, not as lovers, at least. But Jupiter _is_ in Gemini, which is _the_ omen for ‘second chances’, and there’s got to be some reason for Louis coming back into his life at this critical, cosmic moment—it must be their friendship that’s getting another go, Harry realises, and who is he to ignore the stars?

“Do you want to come to Ireland’s party with us?” Harry blurts out, in the spirit of brotherhood.

“You want me to follow you into enemy territory?” Louis blinks, almost astounded.

Harry nods.

Louis checks over his shoulder, surveying the rest of the party, and sighs. “I’d love to, but I think I might get skinned alive. Team loyalty, and whatnot. And it’s getting late.” Harry’s heart sinks. Fuck, Mercury must be in retrograde, he must’ve forgotten a section of his star chart last night. “But I’m free tomorrow morning.”

Harry looks up at the white roof of the tent, wishes it were enchanted, so he could see Venus clearly and thank her. “Tomorrow morning sounds great.”

“At five thirty.”

“What?”

In all fairness, Louis does look legitimately upset, digging the toe of his shiny black shoe into the ground morosely. “Training all day tomorrow.”

It’s past midnight, and Harry and Gemma are about to go to Ireland’s party. Harry’s going to do twelve shots and Gemma will dance on tables. They’ll make it back to their tent as the sun’s coming up, and when they wake up ten hours later, they’ll probably still be drunk.

What difference does it make, really, going to bed at six instead of five, when the cosmos are giving Harry one last chance to be friends with Louis Tomlinson?

“If we eat breakfast at five thirty, do you think it still counts as breakfast? Or is it, like, really late night snack?”

Louis’s eyes are bright enough for all nine planets and Pluto, and Harry feels a pang of longing for something he’ll never have.

“It’s the early bird special, I think.”

***

**Friday**

*******

When Harry sees Louis Tomlinson for breakfast five hours later, Louis is wearing salmon-coloured shorts, and Harry’s hair is on fire.

“Put it out, put it out, put it out!” Harry is chanting, batting helplessly at the top of his head. Gemma and Greg are collapsed in a pile inside of the tent, snoring in unison, but Harry (and, inevitably, Niall) has taken on the task of making breakfast for Louis with enough vigour and purpose for all of England, and also enough alcohol in his bloodstream for a quarter of Ireland. Consequently, Harry’s best attempts at outdoor cooking are headed south quite quickly--the little fire they’ve set up outside of the tent is finally alight but, unfortunately, so is Harry’s head.

Niall, who’s been attempting to pry open the package of sausages for five minutes on the other side of the fire he and Harry’ve built with old pages of their own magazine and set aflame with a Muggle lighter Harry’d bought as a souvenir in France, is decidedly _not_ putting it out, instead literally rolling about on the ground laughing his arse off.

“Where’s my wand, Ni, damnit- _where’s my wand_ -”

“So...greasy…” Niall pants out in response.

“Gemma! Greg! Jesus, anybody--”

“ _Aguamenti_!” cries a voice from behind Harry, and, suddenly, he’s doused in pleasantly cool water.

“Morning, mate!” chirps Louis’s cheerful voice. Harry cranes his neck to smile dopily up at Louis, blinking water out of his eyes as he does so.

“Morning,” Harry grins dopily, only slurring a little. He takes a second to pat the top of his head--he doesn’t seem to be bald, thank god, just a bit singed--before shooting a dirty look at Niall, who’s still snickering. Harry tries to stand up to greet Louis properly, but he feels sloshy and swoopy, and he topples over onto his bum before he can stand straight.

“Need some help there?” Louis sounds amused, but he’s offering his hand out kindly, and _wow_ , he’s got such pretty wrists and nice, dainty fingers. Harry stares at them for a second too long, before letting Louis help him up.

“Thanks for that,” Harry drawls out. It’s probably a bad idea, being around Louis when he’s so heavily intoxicated, especially because Louis is sober and Harry is a flirty drunk, but if they’re going to be mates, Louis should probably know what he’s getting himself into.

“Anytime, love,” Louis says lowly, and Harry ignores the swooping sensation in his belly.

“Nice shorts,” Harry grins, friendly as ever, and _not_ staring at Louis’s tight shorts pointedly.

“It’s my Muggle disguise,” Louis smirks. “Wore ‘em just for the occasion.”

“ _Exaresco_ ,” comes a new voice, one Harry’s never heard before, and just as suddenly as Harry got all wet, Harry gets all dry. Harry peers over Louis’s shoulder curiously to find that yes, indeed, Louis brought company—fuck, Louis didn’t just bring company, he brought _Zayn Malik_ , who’s currently got his wand out and pointed straight in Harry’s direction.

“Zayn,” Louis sighs, seemingly disappointed. “I was looking at that.”

Zayn rolls his eyes and throws an arm around Louis’s shoulder.

“He probably would’ve looked all day,” Zayn tells Harry casually, as if he’s confiding in a friend about some annoying habit their mutual friend has, and Harry’s too busy drunkenly freaking out over the fact that Zayn Malik is addressing him in the first place to even think about what that could mean. “‘M Zayn.”

Zayn Malik has one of the most recognisable faces in England, possibly the world. He’s a bit of a legend—he’s got a half-Veela for a mother and a famous Muggle movie star for a father, but his biggest claim to fame is as the socialite husband of Holyhead Harpies chaser Perrie Edwards. Harry thinks Zayn might sing, or something, on the side, but he’s honestly most well known for pouting beautifully on the cover of every tabloid in Europe.

“I know,” Harry says, before he can stop himself. “I mean, like, um—”

“It’s fine, bro,” Zayn grins. “I know who you are, too, actually.”

“Hope you don’t mind I brought him, it’s all loud and crowded by our tents, even this early, and we both wanted a bit of an escape,” Louis says. “Zayn and I grew up together, our dads are friends. He’s the one who loves your magazine.”

“Huge fan,” Zayn nods.

“Oh, wow,” Harry blinks. “Welcome. Thanks.” Harry grins a little jerkily, sticking his hand out. “I’m Harry. This arsehat behind me is Niall.” Harry jerks his thumb over his shoulder, where Niall’s still struggling with the sausages.

“Hi, Niall!” Zayn and Louis chorus.

“Hey, Tommo, long time no see!” Harry hears Niall call brightly, unperturbed by his own strife, and handling his liquor substantially better than Harry. “Zayn, mate, I like your tattoos! Even cooler in person.”

“Thanks!” Zayn calls back, a small, confused smile on his face. He turns to Harry, lowers his voice. “Is he a Muggle?”

Harry furrows his eyebrows. “Um, no?”

“Squib?”

“Nope.”

“Why isn’t he using magic, then?”

Their wands are inside the tent with Gemma and Greg, because the last time they’d played with fire and magic when drunk, Alexa had nearly ended up at St. Mungo’s.

“We’re a bit sloshed,” Harry drops his voice low, like it’s some sort of secret.

“Aha!” Niall cries from behind them, victorious, and Harry turns to see that Niall’s resorted to poking through the plastic wrap with the blunt end of a stick he’s found on the ground.

“ _A bit_ ,” Louis says fondly, reaching up to ruffle Harry’s slightly burnt hair. Harry barely resists keening—bros laddy pals—and, instead, gestures to the fire.

“Here, guys, have a seat,” he says, spreading his arms wide and gesturing to the blankets they’ve spread out around the fire.

“And have a sausage!” Niall chimes, raising the open package into the air.

“What’s this, Styles?” Louis asks, nudging Harry’s shoulder playfully. “Thought _you_ invited _me_ for brekky. I’ve got to make my own food?”

Harry nudges back instinctively. “It’s every man for himself, here at _The Quibbler_.”

Louis pouts. “But I’m a terrible cook.”

“You can say _that_ again,” Zayn laughs, flopping down on the ground and taking the stick and sausage that Niall offers. “Thanks, mate.”

“If you burn yours, I’ll make you another one,” Harry promises, in the spirit of friendship. “But it’s pretty simple, I think you should give it a try.”

Louis tilts his head to the side, considering. “You just want to see how I handle phallic objects.”

Zayn and Niall cackle, while Harry turns red.

“Love a good penis joke,” Harry manages.

Louis grins, nudges Harry. “Where do you want to sit?”

Harry blushes, mumbles. “Next to you.”

It’s far too early, and Harry’s pretty drunk, and Louis’s sausage instantly falls off of his stick and into the flames, but, still, it’s impossibly fun. On the far side of the circle, Zayn and Niall instantly fall into conversation about Harry and Niall’s trip to the arctic last summer, while facing them, Louis sits cross-legged on the ground, his knee knocking against Harry’s, regaling Harry with stories of his past five years shuffling from pro Quidditch team to pro Quidditch team, while simultaneously backseat-cooking as Harry makes good on his promise and takes over the sausage.

“So I started out on the Magpipes, just on reserve, but I got lucky, because that was the year that their regular seeker got banned for biting—God, that sounds terrible, like, I’m not glad he was banned, that _vampire_ , but it gave me a chance to actually play, you know. Such a shock, at first, that I wasn’t always gonna be the best, but also absolutely incredible in that I got to play with people from all over, could really learn the craft, a whole new way to fly, and--I want it _juicy,_ Styles. And, like, golden-brown.”

“They start _off_ golden-brown, Tomlinson,” Harry sighs, but turns the sausage all the same, careful to cook it evenly. “Weren’t you only at the Magpipes for a year? Gemma said,” he adds on hastily, careful to not appear too informed.

“Yeah, at the end of my trial, I’d gotten enough time on the pitch that other teams knew who I was, and were interested,” Louis nods. “Wimbourne offered me a position on their reserve, but Falmouth wanted me for keeps, and—it’s bubbling, Harry, why’s it bubbling?”

“Dunno,” Harry squints. “I think it’s got something to do with, like, the fat burning off.”

“The fat’s the tastiest part, don’t burn it off!”

“Like you did, earlier?” Harry asks lightly. “Like, when you dropped the whole sausage into the fire?”

“Semantics,” Louis waves his hand.

“I am too drunk for that word,” Harry furrows his eyebrows in mild confusion. “But, please, continue.”

“Right,” Louis nods. “Um, so, I let ego get the best of me, and I went with Wimbourne, because they’ve got _such_ a good record, but I was hardly flying at all. Greg’s such a strong player, I only played one match that season, when he had the flu.”

The reminder of Louis’s fling with Greg James hits Harry square in the chest. “Great form, James,” he agrees feebly.

“This was 2012, though, yeah? When Wimbourne went through restructuring, and they got a new manager? Remember?”

Harry does remember, faintly. “Were you able to get out of your contract _again_ , then?” Harry’s a little awed.

“Yup,” Louis nods happily. “Falmouth was a little bitter, at first, when I asked if the offer still stood, but apparently their interim seeker was a total twat, some guy from Wales who tried to hex Coach Spinnet when she told him he couldn’t have a shower block to himself, and so I arrived two years ago with my tail between my legs, and I plan to stay for as long as they’ll have me.”

“You should go to the Cannons,” Harry advises. “We could use—” he hiccups—“someone good. Your sausage is done. Here, eat up.”

“On _what_?” Louis laughs. Harry isn’t sure if he’s laughing because they don’t actually have plates, or if it’s because Louis finds the idea of quitting the Falmouth Falcons to fly for the Chudley Cannons laughable.

“We’ve got some plates inside, I think,” Harry says, disregarding him either way.

“Honestly,” Louis sighs, “Are you a wizard, or what?” But he waves his wand, and one of the pebbles on the ground grows into a plate.

“Sick,” Harry breathes. “I love magic so much.”

Louis gives Harry a strange look, a mixture of exasperation and fondness that Harry often sees Denise give Greg, and then Louis reaches up to tug on one of his curls. Harry doesn’t fight it this time, and he closes his eyes and nuzzles into Louis’s hand terribly obviously—Harry does this with Ed and Niall and Cara all the time, honestly, it doesn’t mean a thing. Louis doesn’t seem to mind, scratching his fingernails lightly against Harry’s scalp, and Harry feels so many things, like horny and sleepy and happy and smitten and sad, until—

“ _Styles_!” Louis sighs, snatching his hand away and grabbing the roasting stick from Harry’s hand.

One side of the sausage is totally burnt.

“Oh _no_!” Harry cries. “Fuck!”

“Alright, Haz?” Niall asks from the other side of the circle, alarmed. 

“We’re fine,” Louis promises, and then he wraps his arm around Harry’s shoulder in a painfully friendly manner.

“Perfect,” Harry affirms weakly.

“You’re going to eat the fucked up sausage and make me a new one,” Louis whispers to him matter-of-factly.

Niall and Zayn are still looking at them, and so Harry ducks his head, takes a bite of the burnt sausage, and holds his stick out for Niall to hand him another, slightly embarrassed but also trying not to preen under Louis’s attention. “So, Zayn,” Harry starts, changing the subject. “What do you do, Zayn? Besides from like, being with Perrie.”

“Nothing,” Zayn says, in a remarkably bored tone. “I’m a WAG, basically.”

Harry and Niall blink in confusion, but Louis sighs, and says, as if he’s said it many times before: “No, you’re not.”

“Sorry, but what’s a WAG?” Niall asks politely.

“It’s a Muggle thing,” Louis, whose dad is a halfblood, explains. “It’s sort of… the crew of wives and girlfriends for Muggle football players? They’re basically just bratty socialites. First off, Z, it’s WA _P_ here, because Quidditch is an all-inclusive sport, and second, you do _loads_ of things besides from following Pez around like a lost puppy.”

“Like what?” Zayn challenges, raising his eyebrows.

“You model. You DJ. You mix awesome potions—”

Zayn sighs. “Save it, Lou. I’m a WAG. And possibly a drug dealer, on the side.”

“You’re, like, Head WAG, though,” Louis says encouragingly.

Zayn gives Louis a withering look, until Niall wordlessly offers him a half-empty bottle of firewhisky, and Zayn stops glaring to smile a little at Niall.

“So, what’re you two up to for the rest of the day?” he asks, downing an impressive amount of alcohol (Niall nods approvingly).

“Well, we’re going to sleep until five,” Harry says. “And then we’re going to get some work done.”

“Work?” Louis furrows his eyebrows. “Are there even any press events today?”

“Nah,” Harry shakes his head. “This is more… lads adventure stuff. Luna’s given us a new lead, a potential new species to track down.”

“Lads adventure stuff?” Zayn perks up.

“Don’t sound excited,” Niall warns. “I think _this_ lead is a load of wank.”

“Piss off,” Harry says. “You’ll never see them if you don’t believe!”

“And you’ll never see them either, because they don’t exist.”

“Sorry,” Louis interrupts. “But what don’t exist?”  


“Selkies,” Niall sighs.

“Seal-people?” Harry tries, when they’re met with continuously blank looks from Louis and Zayn. “There are all these legends—they’re basically seals, yeah, but at night, they swim up to shore and shed their skin and become human. Ultimately, though, they have to return to the sea.”

“Oh!” Zayn exclaims. “My granddad used to tell me about those. But I didn’t think they were real magical creatures, just objects of Muggle folklore.”

“ _I_ think they’re animagi who used to turn from seals to people in front of Muggles to fuck with their heads,” Niall says conspiringly.

“But what about _Shetland_?” Harry presses. Then, to Louis, he asks, “Is this golden brown enough for you, mate?”

Louis nods, distracted. “Aren’t we _in_ Shetland?” he asks, as Harry slides the sausage onto another pebble-turned-plate.

Harry smiles at him brightly, happy that he’s following along. “Exactly. Shetland is really significant in selkie folklore, cause, like—”

Harry breaks off. He loves selkies, could talk about them for hours, but he’s been up for nearly an entire day and he’s drunk and talking even slower than normal, and he hardly thinks that telling his Muggle wives tales is a good way to impress Louis and his impossibly cool friend.

“’Cause why?” Louis asks gently.

“It’s a long story,” Harry warns.

“Tell it, Hazza,” Niall sighs, spearing another sausage onto his stick. “Might as well get their opinions.”

“Alright,” Harry takes a deep breath. “Okay. So there’s this one legend, right? About this fisherman, in Shetland, who snuck down to the rocks by the sea one night to watch the selkies dance—they’re supposedly really beautiful, see. So anyways, he sees this woman shed her skin, and she’s the most gorgeous thing the fisherman has ever seen. She dances with one seal-man all night, who’s clearly her lover, but the fisherman can’t take his eyes off of her. And so, while she’s not looking, the fisherman steals her sealskin.

“At dawn, the seal woman tries to find her skin, but the fisherman won’t give it back to her. All of her seal friends, the last of whom is her lover, have to swim away when the sun goes up, but the woman is forced to stay ashore with the fisherman and become his wife. He locks her skin up in a trunk, and she stays with him for years, even having his kids, and stuff, before, one day, he leaves his keys at home when he goes out fishing, and she unlocks the trunk and sneaks back to the water, where her seal man is waiting for her. The fisherman, he finds out, and goes down to the shore to talk to her—‘how could you do this, how could you leave me, blah blah blah’, but all the woman does is warn him against fishing for any seals, because he could be killing her, or her seal husband, or their seal children. And then she just, like, goes back into the water.

“This was like, two thousand years ago, yeah? And here, in Shetland, which supposedly had one of the largest selkie populations. And since then, none, Muggle or wizard, has ever reported seeing one.”

Silence follows Harry’s speech; he feels a bit winded from talking for so long without interruption, and hot under Louis’s laser-like gaze, and sluggish from the onset of what he’s sure will be a fantastic hangover. Then—

“Nobody’s seen one because they never existed,” Niall says matter-of-factly. “It’s just a tale they told to protect the seal population, I reckon.”

“I’ve never heard of animagi who can’t transform at will—who can get stuck in one form or another,” Louis says carefully.

“Exactly! It _has_ to be a new species!” Harry exclaims, a bit too loudly for his own ears.

Zayn leans forward, flames flickering across his face, managing to look high-fashion at six in the morning. “Alright, say they’re real. What makes you think that you’ll be able to see them, anyways? If they’ve really not been seen in that long.”

Harry sighs, slumps his shoulders a little. “I don’t,” he confesses. “I just really, really want to.”

“There’s all these prophetic readings about how, now, the selkies only appear to those who pose no threat to the race—meaning, like, someone whose heart already belongs to someone else, whether it’s requited or not, so that even the most beautiful selkie couldn’t tempt them,” Niall explains.

“I’m hoping Niall and I’s bro-love will qualify,” Harry nods. “I’d never leave you for a lame seal-person, Ni.”

“That is a _lie_ , Styles,” Niall says loftily, and Louis and Zayn laugh.

“What time are you guys going, then?” Zayn asks.

“Eight or nine, I reckon,” Harry says. “While it’s still light enough. They only come out after dark, but I’ve looked at a map, and it’s a pretty steep cliff you’ve got to climb down, to get to shore. And with the area so heavily protected, we can’t apparate, or anything.”

Zayn looks impossibly wistful.

“D’you...want to come?” Niall offers politely.

“ _Fuck_ , yeah,” Zayn breathes. “That’d be _sick_. Are you sure it’s alright? I wouldn’t want to intrude, or, like, distract you—”

“Nah, come off it,” Niall scoffs. “You seem like you could use a night of looking for non-existent creatures.”

“Thank you so much,” Zayn says reverently.

“Tommo?” Niall asks. “You in?”

Louis tilts his head to the side, pretending to consider. “If we don’t find them, will Harold turn all red and get embarrassed?”

“Most definitely,” Niall promises.

“Hey,” Harry protests weakly.

“I’m in, then,” Louis smirks. “What?” He tugs on Harry’s protruding bottom lip like it’s nothing at all. “Pouting becomes you.”

***

“I still – don’t – understand – why – we couldn’t have – just – flown – in,” Louis pants out from above Harry. Zayn, bringing in the rear above Louis, makes a noise of agreement.

“It’s too close to Muggle territory,” Harry explains patiently, grabbing ahold of a protruding rock and lowering himself down a bit more. “Lou, there’s a foothold to your left—no, your other left—there you go.”

“You can do it, lads,” Niall calls up encouragingly, from where he’s scaling the cliff with expert speed, a full three metres ahead of Harry.

Harry _hopes_ they can do it, because this is a very high cliff and the waves crashing below them don’t look particularly inviting and, for all the potentially dangerous shit he and Niall pull, neither of them are very good at healing charms.

“Thought you were supposed to be fit!” Harry calls up to Louis. “Famous Quidditch player, and all that.”

“ _Almost_ famous,” Louis corrects. “And sorry we can’t all scale cliff faces like bloody Indiana Jones.”

“Who’s Indiana Jones?”

“For godssake, Harold.”

Though they’ve been proper friends for less than twenty-four hours, Harry reckons he and Louis have the banter thing down to pat. Harry’s really enjoying hanging out with Louis, is the thing. Although Louis and Zayn had left pretty soon after Harry’d told his story about the selkies--Louis needing to get to training and Harry and Niall needing to get to bed—Louis has a sort of magnetic way about him that makes Harry almost lose track of time. Louis has a self depreciating sense of humour, a host of obscure Muggle references, an extensive knowledge of Quidditch, and zero skills whatsoever when it comes to climbing down cliff faces, and Harry finds him to be completely endearing.

Platonically, that is.

“We’re nearly there!” Harry promises.

“If we don’t see twelve selkies, I’m taking you to court,” Louis hollers down in response.

Harry looks up, than curses under his breath. From where he’s clutching the face of the cliff, he’s got a great view of Louis’s arse, which is still clad in his tight, pink shorts. Louis told them that the shorts were all the rage in London right now, but Harry doubts that it’s fashionable to wear them _that_ tight—indecent, maybe, and completely detrimental to operation Turn Crush Into Laddy Bro Pal. It’s like Louis is _trying_ to fuck with Harry.

 _Or he’s wearing those for his new boy,_ an unpleasant voice whispers logically in Harry’s ear.

“Shut up and climb!” Harry yells back.

They reach the shore at the bottom of the cliff ten minutes later, just as the sun is setting.

“Fuck,” Louis mumbles, from beside Harry. “Even I have to admit that this was worth it.”

It’s a calm, warm night, and the waves lap peacefully against the shore, while the sun turns the water orange as it sets in the west. They’ve chosen this alcove for a reason—nestled between a semi-circular cliff wall and the ocean itself, the shore offers a view of similar alcoves not far off, while the cliff obscures them from view.

“’S great, innit?” Niall asks, slightly breathless from the climb, but excited nonetheless.

“Beautiful,” Zayn agrees.

Harry had been a bit worried about bringing Louis and Zayn along—Harry and Niall have worked three years as a unit, Harry hadn’t been sure what it would be like to add two more to the mix—but Zayn murmurs _well, this is a place for a selkie, if there ever was one_ , and Louis points out what could possibly be seal tracks along the water’s edge, and Harry’s glad to have them both along.

“Let’s get started, then,” Harry claps his hands, and they shift into gear. Louis and Zayn spread out the blanket, light candles with their wands, and set up the tripod for the camera, while Harry snaps a few pictures of the moving waves and the vacant shores visible to their right and left and Niall jots a few initial observations down in his black notebook.

“Anybody hungry?” Louis asks, brandishing the wrapped sandwiches he’d most definitely dug out of Harry’s rucksack.

“Always,” Niall grins easily, and he and Harry flop down next to Zayn and Louis on the blankets.

“These are so good,” Louis practically salivates after he takes a bite of his. “Fuck.”

Harry laughs at the awed expression on Louis’s face. “You act like you’ve never had a ham sandwich before.”

Louis glares at Harry from under his unfairly long lashes. “Fuck off, Styles, I’ve not eaten since that lousy sausage you made me this morning.”

“Seriously?” Niall asks incredulously. Harry had slept straight from six in the morning until seven at night, as had Gemma and Greg, but he strongly suspects that Niall had woken up for five minutes in the afternoon, just to eat half a loaf of bread and some cheese. Harry doesn’t want to think about what Niall gets like if he goes longer than five hours without a meal.

“Training all day,” Louis nods. “Had me doing _laps_ for two straight hours, trying to get me in sync with the rest of the team. I nearly fell off my broom at the end, I was so hungry.”

Niall looks as if he might cry, but Zayn rolls his eyes. “Please, Lou, I gave you _four_ chocolate frogs.”

“Athletes need _protein_ , Zayn,” Louis sticks his nose up into the air.

“Why don’t you just swallow a load, then?” Zayn shoots back. “Harry, you want to help Louis out, here?”

Harry nearly chokes on his own sandwich, and Louis reaches over to slap Harry soundly on the back, glaring at Zayn. The two seem to have a silent conversation with their eyes, and Harry feels inexplicably hot all over.

“Harry, did you let Gemma know we’ve arrived safely?” Niall asks loudly, diverting the attention. Harry coughs once more, clearing his throat, before shaking his head weakly. “Useless,” Niall sighs, but he blows a kiss at Harry before pulling his wand out of his back pocket, waving it, and murmuring, “ _Expecto patronum_.”

“A hare,” Louis observes, as Niall speaks to his patronus— _tell Gemma we’re safe and that Louis likes the sandwiches she made for us_. “Fitting. What’s yours, Harry?”

“An otter. I like it, because you can make a lot of puns using ‘otter’ instead of ‘ought to’.”

Louis shakes his head, smiling. “How creative.”

“Thanks,” Harry dimples. “How about you?”

“A falcon. Cause, like. I fly, I guess.”

Harry nods. “I can see that, really. Fierce as hell.”

Louis shrugs. “I know, like, twelve other people who’ve got falcons. I’ve always wished mine were something really cool. Like a dragon, that could breathe fire at dementors.”

“Have you ever actually seen a dementor?”

“’Course not,” Louis says. “Just, like. If I ever did.”

“Good to be prepared,” Harry nods, as if Louis makes any sense at all.

(He does, but Harry’s trying not to think about that.)

“So, Zayn, what did you do today, while the players were training?” Niall asks.

Zayn, inexplicably, flushes.

“I, um. I took a portkey back to Muggle Scotland?”

“Muggle Scotland?” Louis scoffs. “The only good thing that’s ever come out of Muggle Scotland is Paolo Nutini.”

“Harsh,” Zayn says, though he doesn’t sound very affected by it at all.

“Well?” Harry prompts, curiosity taking the better of him. “What were you doing there?”

“I might have bought a book,” Zayn says shyly. “On selkies.”

“No _way_ ,” Harry breathes.

Zayn smiles cautiously, then wider when he realises that Harry’s excitement is genuine. “I thought we might as well do a bit more research.”

“Luna _is_ always saying we need to devote more time to researching,” Niall says, through a big bite of his own sandwich.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Harry reprimands instinctively, before turning back to Zayn, eyes bright. “Did you bring it, then?”

“What? Oh, yeah, here,” Zayn reaches into his rucksack and pulls out a thin, dusty, crease-worn volume, handing it over to Harry. ‘ _Selkie Fowk of Shetland_ ’, reads the title, and below it, there’s a drawing of a woman with long blonde curls shedding her sealskin, looking back at the reader with mistrust in her eyes.

“This is incredible,” Harry murmurs, turning the pages carefully. “Where did you even find this?”

“Charity shop,” Zayn shrugs, like it’s no big deal.

“Can I have a look?” Louis asks, and Harry scoots over so that Louis has space to come closer, his side pressing into Harry’s as he peers over Harry’s shoulder at the book. “Really cool, mate,” he says genuinely, smiling over at Zayn.

“Thanks,” Zayn grins.

“Go on, then, Haz,” Niall prompts. “Read us a few, would you?”

By the time that Harry makes it through the first tale, a story of a little boy swept away in his infancy and raised by selkies, darkness has fully set, a chilly breeze coming in and pressing all of them closer together, so that Harry’s practically leaning back against Louis’s chest. Niall’s brought his trusty flask, “for warmth”, but Harry passes the book up to Louis, who reads the next tale—a chapter about a man who drowned himself trying to pursue a selkie woman he’d watched dancing on the shore—and Louis’s voice rings out soft and clear over the bay, and Harry doesn’t need alcohol to feel drunk at all.

They pass the book around until the sky is like dark blue velvet, and Zayn starts to nod off on Niall’s shoulder while Niall yawns his way through the last tale.

“I’ll take first watch,” Harry offers quietly, even though he knows that there’s no way in hell Niall’s waking up once he falls asleep.

“Thanks, H,” Niall grins, already unrolling his and Zayn’s sleeping bags. He tries shaking Zayn’s shoulder to wake him up, but Zayn is clearly dead to the world, and so Niall deposits Zayn gently on top of his sleeping bag, and then climbs into his own, zipping himself in so that only the tip of his head is peeking out. “Love you. Wake me up if you see one.”

“Love you too,” Harry says. “Night.”

“Aww,” Louis coos softly, as they watch Niall furrow deeper into his sleeping bag, so close to Zayn’s that their sides are lined up. “Look at them.”

“I think Zayn might give me a run for Niall’s best mate,” Harry says gravely.

“Couldn’t hold a candle to you,” Louis promises. “How’s Niall supposed to write the article if he’s sleeping through the whole thing, though?”

Harry shrugs. “He’ll copy down the selkie stories in vivid detail and be artfully vague about the actual experience.”

“Resourceful bloke, isn’t he,” Louis nods approvingly. “You tired?”

Harry shakes his head. Niall will sleep all day and all night when given the option, but, seeing as Harry only woke up four or five hours ago, he still feels pretty keyed up. “Not at all. You?”

“No,” Louis shakes his head. “I’ll stay up with you.”

Harry hides his grin, busying himself with pulling his own sleeping bag out of his rucksack. “Alright, mate. Grab your stuff, we should move out a bit if we’re gonna be talking.”

“Considerate,” Louis says fondly, and they grab their respective sleeping bags, a few candles, Niall’s flask, and a bag of crisps and set up camp a few metres away from the now-snoring Zayn and Niall, dragging the tripod behind them. They lay the bags out side by side, and Louis doesn’t hesitate before settling down on his back, staring straight up at the stars. Harry feels a pang of nostalgia for all the time they spent atop the astronomy tower together, stargazing, before he drops down next to Louis, folding his hands across his stomach and crossing his ankles.

“Excited about tomorrow?” Harry ventures to ask Louis, quietly, privately.

“Sure am,” Louis says with a little laugh that Harry sees straight through. Harry hums, but doesn’t say anything, waiting to see if Louis will continue. After a long stretch of silence, he does. “I mean,” he says. “I’m also a little nervous. Like, it’s dumb, because I probably won’t even have to play, but if I do, then, fuck, it’s an entire championship on my shoulders, and if I don’t, then I feel like it’s almost a chance wasted.”

“Chance wasted?”

“Playing in the World Cup has been my dream since I was a fucking kid, Merlin,” Louis says, sounding a little frustrated. “And how often do we even get here? Every century? This is sort of my only shot. But, like, fuck, I don’t want Greg to--I’m not saying I want anyone to get hurt, I just. Fuck.”

Harry knocks his shoulder against Louis’s. “I get it,” he promises quietly. “It’s a lot of pressure, Lou, either way. It’s okay to be scared out of your mind.”

Harry looks over to see Louis smiling up at the sky, through the darkness. “I’m not scared out of my bloody _mind_ , Styles. This is my job, after all.”

“Just saying,” Harry whispers. “It would be okay if you were.”

It’s a remarkably clear night, and the stars are always brightest by the sea. A planetarium above their heads, the stars shine lighter than any combination of candles ever could, and Harry counts them, counts them to infinity, as he and Louis lie side by side in silence.

“It’s really beautiful,” Louis says, so quietly Harry’s not sure if he’s really spoken at first.

“D’you remember anything I taught you?” Harry asks, not taking his eyes off of the constellations.

“Taught me?” Louis laughs softly. “You were like, fifteen, and a professor’s assistant. Don’t get all high and mighty.”

“Bet you can find Orion’s Belt,” Harry challenges.

Louis sighs like it pains him, but he slowly raises his arm to point up at the constellation.

“O for outstanding!” Harry cheers quietly.

Louis snorts. “That was an easy one, Harry, I _swear_ I’m inept.”

“Can you tell Venus and Mars apart?”

Louis squints up at the sky, hard. “Venus…” he says slowly, pointing northeast. “And Mars?” he guesses, moving his finger south.

“Other way around,” Harry corrects, and Louis lolls his head to the side to smile lazily at him.

“‘It would be okay if you were.’ ‘Other way around.’ God, Styles, you’re so…”

“So what?” Harry asks, suddenly wary.

“Gentle,” Louis decides, rolling his head to look back up at the stars. Harry blinks over at his profile for what feels like a long time, glad that the darkness covers his blush.

“Yeah?” he asks, half holding his breath.

“In a good way,” Louis says quickly, misinterpreting Harry’s soft tone as hurt. “Not in an insult to your manliness way, at all, promise. More like--more like…you’re always so kind?”

“I’m unkind all the time,” Harry says, shaking his head, his cheek pressing into the sand under his sleeping bag. All of the things he’s thought about Greg James in the past day, for example, come to mind.

“Nonsense,” Louis scoffs. “If you’re ever unkind, it’s only to yourself.”

“You hardly know me,” Harry points out, tearing his gaze away from Louis and looking up at the North Star, which blinks down at him.

“I watched you for four years at school,” Louis says quietly. “I think I know you a little.”

Harry feels his heart skip a beat, and then speed up at least twelve times fast. “What?” he manages to choke out.

“Not in a creepy way!” Louis laughs--nervously? “I just--my God, this is so embarrassing. Alright. Might as well. You took the floo home for Christmas from Gryffindor common room your First Year, remember? With your cousins, and Gemma?”

“Yeah,” Harry nods slowly, focusing on breathing and taking in Louis’s words one by one. “We went home with Matt and Ben that year. Yeah, I remember perfectly, because I--”

“You left Gemma’s Christmas present behind in the common room?” Louis finishes quietly.

Harry narrows his eyes in confusion. “How did you know that?”

“I stayed at Hogwarts that year, for Christmas,” Louis explains, and his voice sounds a bit strained. “Things weren’t so good at home, and my mum thought it would be best to just stay put. I found the parcel with the card stuffed between the cushions later that night.”

“You never gave it back,” Harry says, and it’s not an accusation, or anything, he’s just trying to figure out where the story is going.

“No,” Louis agrees. “I did not. Partly because I’d never spoken a word to you before, and partly because they were really comfortable socks.”

In spite of himself, Harry lets out a giggle to the night sky. “You stole the pair of socks that I got for my sister for Christmas, and then you were afraid to tell me? I was a fucking First Year, Louis.”

“You were all curly,” Louis says dismissively, as if it explains everything. “Anyways. The socks were nice and warm, but what really caught my attention was the card.”

“The card?”

“Fuck,” Louis laughs a little, to himself, and then he clears his throat, and, in one breath: “Gems, here are some socks with diamonds on them (ha!) so you’ll shut up about your feet being cold. You’re my favourite person in the world but don’t tell Mum because she’ll get jealous. Happy Christmas. Love, H.”

The stunned silence stretches out for what feels like forever. Harry is impossibly confused--Louis _memorised_ a stupid card he’d written for Gemma ten years ago, and it clearly meant something to him, what the _fuck_?

“Are you creeped out?” Louis asks, sounding strangely panicked. “Fuck, I’m sorry. It’s not like I stalked you or anything, after that, it’s just--I had four little siblings that year, who I didn’t get to go home and see, and I missed them so much and your card so reminded me of, just, like, _family_ , or whatever, and--”

“Louis,” Harry cuts him off. “Why are you apologising?”

“I don’t know, just, like, you’re not really saying much, and it’s so _weird_ , I _stole Gemma’s socks_ and then _never told you_ , I just--”

“Hey, hey,” Harry says gently, propping himself up on his elbow so he can look over at Louis. Louis raises himself up a bit, too, leaning back on both of his elbows and stubbornly addressing the water, instead of Harry directly.

“I’m just saying,” Louis says, with a deep breath. “You’re a kind person, and I’ve always appreciated that.”

“Thank you,” Harry says quietly, and he can feel it in his bones, how much it means to him, can feel it in his very core. “Seriously, Louis. I’m sorry if I’ve been quiet. I just think it’s…funny, is all, not you thinking my card was sweet, or anything, just, like. You have to have know that, like, at school, I was a bit--”

 _In love with you_ , Harry is about to say, but a sudden, loud splash from near the beach to their left cuts his confession off.

Louis sits up all the way, startled, as does Harry.

“Do you think--” Louis whispers hoarsely.

“Maybe,” Harry squints at the dark water ahead of them, trying to make something, anything, out. “Do you have--”

 _Splash_!

Clearer, this time, they can see the place where the water turns white as it splashes up, disturbed.

“Something’s definitely trying to get to shore,” Harry says, so quietly it’s not much more than a soft exhale.

Louis hands him a pair of enchanted binoculars in response. Harry raises them to his eyes slowly, his fingers skillfully bringing the six lenses into focus, but as soon as he gets it in order, there’s no point, because, lit brightly by the full moon and stars, two sleek seals are pulling themselves up to shore.

“Shit,” Louis swears quietly, and Harry sets down the binoculars and presses a finger to his lips, warning Louis to be quiet. They’re mostly obscured by the far left side of the cliff face, peering out at the bank diagonal to them, but Harry’s scared to move, scared to breathe, lest he disturb the selkies. Louis grabs Harry’s hand and squeezes it in silent understanding, and Harry squeezes back in excitement, and neither of them let go.

The selkies move gracefully, quietly, their sealskins simply falling away, instead of peeling off. Both the man and the woman are tall and broad, all pale skin and long, dark hair spilling down their backs in sheets, but their movements are small and precise as they step out of the skins and fold them up carefully, tucking them away by a rock by the shore. They stretch carefully, coming into their bodies on land, craning their necks towards the sky, towards Orion’s Belt and the North Star and Mars and Venus and the whole Universe. They’re so beautiful it nearly hurts to look at them, but, strangely enough, Harry is just as acutely aware of Louis’s hand in his, grounding him and holding him still, as he is of the creatures on the shore.

The man bends down to whisper something into the woman’s ear, and the sound carries--not Mermish, which Harry speaks fluently, but nothing human, an entirely new set of sounds that individually seem harsh but mesh together with a sort of musicality that Harry seems to understand deep in his bones.

_Shall we dance?_

The woman throws her head back and laughs in response, taking the man’s offered hand and starting to dance.

They don’t move to music Harry can hear, but again, he understands it, because it’s in his body--his blood rushes in time in his ears and his heart slows down and speeds up to the beat of the selkies’ feet on the shore, like they’re creating some sort of current on land with their movements, and Harry and Louis are just casualties. Louis’s pulse beats in time, as well, the both of them totally in sync with the selkies.

“This is,” Louis breathes against Harry’s neck, resting his head on Harry’s shoulder. They’re both sweating as if they’re actually twirling across the sand, too.

“I know,” Harry traces back onto Louis’s palm. They’re saturated in it, in the amazement of the selkies’ dance, and the heady power of it makes Harry feel nearly drunk.

The selkies dance until the sky turns pink, but when their feet start to slow, so, too, does Harry’s heart, hammering less ferociously against his ribcage, it feels like it’s only been mere seconds since they started to dance. While the selkies retrieve their real skins, Harry feels as though he’s settling back into his own body. The man hops into his skin with expertise, sliding it back shut and shuffling back into the water with familiar ease, but the woman pauses on the shore.

 _Come_ , the man calls to her. _It’s getting to be light out_.

She tucks her long hair behind her ear and looks over her shoulder, right back at Harry and Louis. Her eyes are nearly black, and when they meet Harry’s, they seem to bore into his soul, sending shivers down his spine. She knows that he and Louis had watched her and her lover silently and admiringly all night--she doesn’t look surprised or hostile to see them staring back at her, she just smiles serenely, revealing a row of pointy teeth, and raises a hand in farewell.

 _Goodbye!_ she calls, without moving her lips.

 _Goodbye_ , Harry waves thoughtlessly, wordlessly. Louis, next to him, does the same.

They stare at the space the selkies have left long after the woman slips her skin back on and slides into the water. The trance fades slowly--Harry’s heartbeat finds a steady rhythm apart from Louis’s, and he starts to become aware of the cool breeze coming off of the waves and the sand beneath his toes--but it does fade, and thoughts start to seep into Harry’s mind, through the cracks.

 _Selkies only appear to those whose hearts already belong to someone else,_ Harry hears Niall saying.

It’s like--Harry pined after Louis for five years, yeah, and yeah, after spending the last two nights together, Harry’s definitely crushing on him again, but even Harry’s not romantic enough to say that he’s fallen back in love with Louis in just twenty-four hours. No, Harry thinks, it’s more that he knows that he _could_ fall back in love with Louis, so easily, could fall back and stay back, could see them waking up together in a small shell cottage by the sea and could see the tea going cold because they’re too busy snogging lazily in bed to drink it, could see himself wearing Louis’s Falmouth Falcons shirt and cheering him on loudly in the stands, could see himself inviting Louis along to some of he and Niall’s excursions and could _hear_ Louis attempting to ask for directions to the nearest toilets in piss-poor Spanish only to be told he’s got to go in the woods.

Harry could see it so clearly, could see it so clearly how easily Louis could have his heart.

And yet--Louis saw the selkies too, didn’t he? Harry doesn’t know if Louis is like him, on the brink of love, or if Louis is already in the thick of it, but, if Louis was able to see them, he doesn’t just have a passing fancy--Louis’s heart is already spoken for, by someone other than Harry, and all of those things that Harry could see are completely, irrevocably irrelevant.

Harry’s overcome with hazy memories of the experience itself, of the selkie’s dark eyes and how he and Louis had seemed to merge into one being, and also plagued with deep pangs of sadness, sadness that it’s over and that he and Louis, as they were one, are over and that Harry could love Louis and that Louis loves someone else.

When the sky is light purple and streaks of pink are poking through, Louis stirs beside Harry, and Harry turns to find Louis stretching his arms above his head, staring out at the water with an expression that mirrors Harry’s own.

“Hey,” Harry speaks, voice hoarse from such prolonged silence.

“Hey yourself,” Louis says back, sounding equally distant.

Louis looks beautiful, in the early morning light--well, Louis looks beautiful in every light, but there’s something special about the way his eyes look nearly purple, now, reflecting the light from the ocean and the sky, and how his hair is curling a little bit at the nape of his neck, and how he’s pulled the sleeves of his hoodie over his hands and curled them into fists.

“Let’s not tell Niall or Zayn,” Harry says, before he’s even had a chance to think about it.

“Sorry?” Louis asks, confused.

Harry takes a deep breath. “Let’s not tell anyone we saw the selkies. Let’s just--”

“Keep it for us?”

Harry nods.

“Yeah,” Louis says, looking, impossibly, relieved and heartbroken and beautiful all at the same time. “Alright.”

“Alright,” Harry repeats softly, casting his eyes back to the selkies’ shore. “Alright.”

***

**Saturday**

*******

Niall and Harry, quite literally, have been begging Luna Lovegood for tickets to the 2014 Quidditch World Cup since they first started writing for _The Quibbler_.

“We’re asking you in advance, so you have time to think about it,” Niall had said in his most earnest, hopeful, cherubic-Irish-sunshine voice, after the very first issue he and Harry helped put together became the second highest selling edition of _The Quibbler_ ever printed. It had contained a piece on their three days in a canoe on the Amazon, looking for Dugbogs, and a celebratory pub crawl in wizarding Cusco, plus horoscopes, _plus_ an article about the Ministry’s overall food waste, and a raving review of the Muggle phone camera application “Instagram”, and Luna had been so pleased that she’d ruffled their hair and promised to consider it.

“By the way,” Harry had dropped his voice low and dimpled down purposefully at her. “I _love_ your earrings.”

The road to the Cup had been long, filled with climbing up Mt Kilimanjaro only to discover that, yet again, the creatures Luna had them chasing after were really just legends and investigating outlandish conspiracy theories involving the talking head on the Knight Bus and, on one, particularly memorable occasion, babysitting Luna’s insane, blond toddlers, but they’re here now, _finally_ , mere hours before the match starts and right in the thick of it, and Harry?

Harry’s fucking _depressed_.

“Smile!” Niall cries, throwing one arm around Harry’s shoulder and one arm around Gemma’s, and _beaming_ into the camera that Greg’s holding up. Niall’s gone all out, naked but for a pair of shamrock-covered boxers. He’s wrapped the Irish flag around his shoulders and painted his chest green and white and even convinced Gemma to charm his hair so that the tips are no longer dyed blond, but bright orange.

Harry manages a weak grimace, and then the shutter goes off, momentarily blinding him.

“You look like utter wank, Harry, and not just because you’re in red and white,” Greg announces, putting a hand on his hip and looking scarily similar to Maura. “What’s up your arse?”

“Leave him alone, Greg,” Gemma snipes, wrapping an arm around Harry’s waist and knocking her hip against his. Harry’s not told her what exactly happened (or, didn’t happen) with Louis down by the water, but she’s been exceptionally gentle with him all day, well enough attuned to him to know that something’s not right.

“I didn’t sleep at all last night,” Harry grumbles in his own defence, sagging a bit into Gemma’s side. It’s not a lie, but it’s also far from the truth--even though he and Louis were up all night, Harry feels well-rested, like the selkies may have been a very nice dream after all. It’s just that the weight of unrequited love is pressing incessantly against Harry’s shoulders, achingly familiar but also twenty times worse than it was in school, because in school, Harry just admired Louis from afar, but now Harry’s seen what Louis looks like at five in the morning and it _hurts,_ dammit.

“Do you want some Pepper Up Potion?” Niall offers. He, too, can tell that something’s wrong, has been giving Harry extra cuddles and smiles all day, but Harry doesn’t want to drag him down into his pit of despair on arguably the biggest weekend of their lives. “Zayn gave it to me, apparently it’s really good.”

“Nah, bro, save it for something really special,” Harry forces a smile.

Niall gives him an odd look, then spreads his arms, as if to say _, this_ is _something special_. “Suit yourself, babes,” he says.

It’s nearing five o’clock, and they’re headed out to meet Cara and her friends for drinks at their tent before going down to the pitch. The campsite’s been laid out like a bullseye, with the state-of-the-art pitch in the centre, the goalposts shining bright in the sun. Along the outermost ring are the staff tents, where _The Quibbler_ crew has set up; in the middle, thousands of tents of people who’ve just come to have a good time; and closest to the pitch, divided evenly into two sides, are the hardcore fans, the ones who’re here to fight to the death.

Normally, just the excitement of the campground alone would be enough to send Harry over the moon. Harry’s never seen anything like it. Although the atmosphere is a bit reminiscent of Glastonbury Festival, where he and Niall went last summer with muggleborn Ed, the air here _crackles_ with magic--Harry doesn’t think he’s ever seen so many wizards in one place in his life. When they’d arrived on Thursday, the grounds had been deserted but for press and event staff, and they’d slept away the day on Friday, their tent soundproof and cooled with an enchanted ceiling fan. But baking under the sun, the grounds on Saturday are _mad_.

There are tents by the thousands--some fancy, with picket fences and emerald green lawns with real live flamingos and posh old wizards smoking pipes on wicker chairs, and some made out of what looks to be burlap sacks painted with either English or Irish colours. There are people of every sort, too, from children not much older than Theo zooming about on toy brooms to men and women dressed in mismatched Muggle garb who look old enough to remember the last time England made it to the final.

Walkways have formed naturally, paths worn in quickly by thousands upon thousands of feet, and lining the sides are a vast assortment of trolleys and booths and stalls, vendors peddling everything from enchanted figurines of the players to butterbeer to towels ‘Bressie’s used to wipe off, I swear on me mam’s grave!’ There’s even a stage, set back a bit from the main pitch, where the Dragon Tamers are giving a free, pre-match show.

However melodramatic it may be, all Harry really wants to do is curl up under a pile of blankets and have a good cry.

He puts on a brave face, though, or at least he tries to, when they arrive at Cara’s tent, which is situated on the border of the middle and inner circles. Cara’s sat outside on a union jack chair, hollering out hellos to passerby and flashing ones she finds to be particularly fetching.

“World Cup 2014!” she shouts out when she sees them approaching, and she yanks up her shirt and sticks her tongue out.

Harry squints dramatically.

“It says ‘Go England’,” she tells him impatiently.

“Oh, I know,” he grins, cheeky. “I was just trying to make out your boobs.”

She drops her top back down, cuffs him around the head, and then pulls him in for a huge hug.

“You absolute tit. If you hadn’t gone and said that, I would’ve complimented your lack of hair cut and everything.”

“I’d have said thank you,” he says humbly.

She pinches his cheeks. “We all know Mumma Twist raised you right, no need to try to impress us.”

“Ow,” he whines, rubbing at his cheek.

Cara swats his hand away. “You’ve got face paint on, or are you forgetting?” she warns.

“What’re you, the Team Spirit police?” Harry rolls his eyes, but he pointedly drops his hands from his face, leaving the flag painted on his cheek alone, and Cara releases him with a kiss to the forehead and turns to the rest of the group.

“Niall!” she cries, moving past Harry to embrace the boy in question. “I _love_ that colour on you!”

Harry loves Cara, he really does, but her manic energy is making his already throbbing head hurt, and so he’s beyond relieved when a soft voice greets him with ‘hullo’, and he looks down to find Ed sat in the grass, strumming his guitar quietly.

“Ed,” Harry breathes, flopping down next to the ginger and sure he’s never been so happy to see an individual in his life. Ed is blessed (and cursed) with an incredible sensitivity, and the ability to see through all sorts of subtext; Harry can talk circles, but Ed will still understand him better than Harry understands himself.

“Mate,” Ed laughs, when Harry instantly nuzzles into his shoulder, searching for cuddles. Ed obliges, setting his guitar down gently in the grass and ruffling Harry’s hair. “What’s the matter with you?”

“The boy I love has already given his heart to someone,” Harry says sadly.

Ed makes a tutting noise. “Well, this is all very sudden. When we talked last week you’d fucked your way through half of Madrid, now you’re in love?”

Harry shakes his head against Ed’s shoulder. “I was never out of love, I guess,” he confesses, very quietly.

“Ah,” Ed says. “Some dormant dragon’s been awakened, huh.”

“I feel like crap,” Harry says. “I want him so bad, but I can’t have him, because someone else got there first.”

Ed hums. “Really? Are you sure?”

Harry thinks about how Louis’s eyes had lit up when he’d said ‘I already have my eye on someone else’, thinks about how Louis is surrounded by the likes of Liam Payne and Aaron Ramsey everyday, thinks about how he almost told Louis he’d been in love with him.

“Quite,” Harry says. 

“That’s total shit,” Ed says sympathetically. “Want to get drunk?”

***

They’re drunk.

“Tickets, please,” the extremely unamused security guard demands, holding out his hand impatiently. Harry giggles, one arm slung around each Niall and Ed’s necks and a flag tied around his shoulders like a cape. They’re out of breath from climbing up so many stairs to their SkyBox, and from laughing so hard their sides hurt.

“We’re with the _press_ ,” Niall boasts, then snickers into Harry’s shoulder like it’s funny.

(It _is_ funny. Everything’s funny, right now, like how Niall bought a women’s Team England thong and put it over his head and how Gemma keeps throwing handfuls of grass at Greg because Ireland is ‘dirt’ and how Cara has now totally lost her top and seems dead set on losing her pants, too, and even how Louis doesn’t love Harry back.

“He’s not even from _England_ ,” Harry keeps giggling, over and over. “Ramsey’s Welsh _. Welsh!_ ”)

The guard crosses his arms over his chest, wand gripped tightly in his gloved fists, and raises his eyebrows skeptically. His jaw is so square, Harry thinks, and his eyebrows are so thick, that it’s comical. “Where are your passes, then?”

Harry hiccups. “That is a _good question_ , Sir,” he slurs. “Gemma?” he calls out, not entirely sure where she is but vaguely recalling that she’d had the press passes in her Undetectable-Extension-Charmed bag.

“Harry!” she calls back, from somewhere to his right. He turns to find her clinging onto Greg’s back, given up on her one-woman mission to take down Ireland in favour of a good piggyback ride.

“We need the - we’ve got to give him - um, those things - do you have - um -”

“Your press passes, Miss,” the guard finishes for Harry, clearly running out of patience.

Gemma waves her hand in the air dismissively. “We’re on the _list_ ,” she says, with an air of drunken importance.

“There is no list,” the guard says through clenched teeth, and Harry can’t help but swallow audibly.

“We’re with _The Quibbler_ ,” Niall explains, enunciating his words clearly as if it will make him appear less pissed.

“That loony rag of Xeno Lovegood’s?” The guard asks, a small smirk playing on his unnaturally thin lips

Harry does not find _that_ funny. “Hey,” he speaks up. “Hey. You. Listen here. _The Quibbler_ is a _perfectly_ respectable publication, and it’s not-” he hiccups- “-not very nice to call people _names_ , especially people you don’t _know_ \--”

“Is there some trouble here, Andy?” an even _square-er_ man, dressed in the same black Ministry guard robes and gloves, comes up behind the first, surveying their group suspiciously. “I’m going to have to ask you to put a shirt on,” he adds, staring Cara down with a look of zero-bullshit tolerance.

Cara places her hands on her hips in typical fashion, raising one thick eyebrow daringly.

“Oh, fuck it,” the man says. “Andy, they’re positively smashed. Get them some water and get them out of here, before the queue builds up.”

“On it, Mr Higgins,” Andy nods importantly, before turning back to the group, looking fairly menacing.

“We _paid_ for these tickets!” Cara cries indignantly, steadying herself by gripping Greg’s arm.

“Yeah, well, you also drank more than the Irish team drank Thursday night combined, apparently, so no match for you,” Andy shoots back.

Harry spies Higgins roll his eyes and Andy’s dramatics, and lets out a snort of laughter, before he remembers that, fuck, they’re getting kicked out.

“Please, Andy,” he tries one last time, as Cara starts a tirade about how women’s nude bodies need to be normalised in society and ingrained sexism. “We--we’re just _proud_ of our countries, you know, like, we came out to watch the match of our lifetimes, and I’m honestly feeling a little attacked--”

“Move it, kid,” Andy starts to push at Harry’s shoulders, not hard enough to hurt, but definitely intimidatingly firmly. “You can find your way into general seating. _The Quibbler_ , honestly.”

“ _The Quibbler_?” Higgins asks, his voice taking a sharp edge all of the sudden. “Andy, stop.”

Andy pauses, his arms still outstretched, ready to herd them like sheep down the stairs. “Yeah, Boss?”

“You, kid,” he points at Harry, and Harry can’t help but puff out his chest, thinking that maybe, he’ll get the apology he deserves for the nasty comment Andy had made earlier about his life’s work. Or maybe Higgins is a fan of the magazine, and wants Harry’s autograph. “What’s your name.”

“Harry Styles,” Harry says importantly.

Higgins lets out an impressively long sigh. “Wait right here, you lot,” he grumbles, and he loops up one more narrow flight of stairs into the top- _top_ boxes.

“What do you reckon this is about?” Niall drunk-whispers to Harry.

“Quiet down,” Andy snaps, and Niall makes a big show of going ramrod straight, crossing his eyes and standing stiff like a board as if he’s been Petrified. Harry can’t help but double over in laughter, which sets Ed off, which sets Niall off, which sets--

“Is this them?” Higgins demands from above their heads.

“Um,” comes a familiar voice. “Uh, yeah, that’s--that’s them, alright.”

“Zayn!” Harry wheezes through his laughter, looking up to find his new mate looking as if he’s just stepped out of the pages of a magazine, holding a champagne flute and wearing a set of magnificent black robes, and looking pretty and uncomfortable.

“Harry,” Zayn says. “Niall.” His eyes roam around the rest of the group, taking in their giggly, sloppy, half-dressed state, and he seems to make a split second decision. “Go ahead and use that Sober Up Potion I made you--it’ll only take me twenty minutes to brew you some more, don’t worry--and give it to the lot of them and let them into their box, they won’t do any harm,” he tells Higgins. “You,” he jerks his head at Harry. “Can you come with me?”

Harry furrows his eyebrows. “Um, I’d really much prefer to stay with my--”

“Louis is asking for you,” Zayn rolls his eyes, and Harry straightens up immediately.

“Louis?” he asks, feeling dizzy with _Louis Louis Louis_ , Louis who doesn’t want him back, but Louis is his friend now, and what if Louis is scared for his big match, and what if Louis needs him, and why is Louis--

“Oh, Christ, it’s not even dark out yet, how are you _this_ drunk?” Zayn groans.

“Here,” Higgins hands Zayn a small vial that he’s withdrawn from inside his swishy Ministry robes.

“Thanks, Paul,” Zayn says gratefully, and he presses the vial into Harry’s hands. “Drink this whole thing, alright?”

Harry uncorks the lid of the vial and sniffs. It smells like Marmite and nail varnish. “Zayn,” he whines.

“Louis,” Zayn reminds him meaningfully, and Harry pinches the bridge of his nose and downs it in one go.

Instantly, Harry feels as if his entire system’s been thrown into a tub of ice water. The nice, sloshy feeling he’d had in his gut from the alcohol vanishes, and the deep-set depression in Harry’s bones is left to resurface.

Harry shivers. “I hate you,” he murmurs to Zayn.

“Sorry, mate,” Zayn sounds genuinely apologetic. “But this is kind of urgent. The match is going to start in five, I need you to come with me, like, right now.”

Harry’s concerned, and he doesn’t bother trying to hide it--as Zayn leads him up the last flight of stairs and around to the box where Harry knows all the players are waiting to fly onto the pitch for their big entrance, he keeps up a constant stream of ‘what’s going on, Zayn, is Louis okay, is he hurt, Zayn, please tell me’, until they reach the wooden door to the technical area. Two guards stand by, both of whom, of course, know Zayn, but Zayn holds a hand up to pause them when they go to open the door. Zayn checks over his shoulder to make sure that they’re alone on the platform but for the guards, before quickly whispering, “Greg’s disappeared.”

Harry blinks, no longer drunk but still having a hard time comprehending. “Greg’s _what_?”

“Vanished,” Zayn says, and he sounds distant, far away. “It was during training early this morning. One minute he was by the goalposts with Wood; the next, gone.”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Harry breathes.

“Two rare accidents involving the same position this close to the World Cup aren’t accidents,” Zayn confides lowly. “We’ve got people investigating now. Perrie thinks it’s some crazy Irish fans, thinks someone tampered with Jesy’s broom, and also snuck into the party last night and slipped some Transportation Potion in Greg’s drink. I reckon she’s right, and that Greg’s probably confounded in the middle of the Sahara, or something, and he’ll apparate back as soon as the charm wears off--we’re not concerned for his life or anything, it’s more the immediate problem of the game.”

“Louis is playing.” It’s not a question. Zayn nods, grave.

“He’s…not himself,” Zayn says. Then, in that quietly direct way of his: “I don’t think that we’ve got a chance in hell, if Louis has to fly out in the next five minutes in the state he’s in.”

Harry swallows. “And, you think I’ll help because…?”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Because Louis has had a _giant_ crush on you for nearly ten years, you prat.”

Harry _gapes_ at Zayn. “ _What_?”

“Don’t look so shocked, Harry, not after he basically admitted to stalking you when you were at Hogwarts together last night!”

Harry feels very hot and very cold all at once. “No. No, he was just being nice, last night. We’re just friends, Zayn.”

Zayn sighs, and looks, inexplicably, dejected. “You’re really rejecting him, then? I didn’t believe him when he told me this morning, but. Alright. Just--sorry, are you actually not into guys, then? Because I could’ve _sworn_ you were into Louis--”

“Zayn, seriously, slow the fuck down,” Harry manages, his heart in his throat. “Louis thinks I _rejected_ him?”

Zayn nods slowly, and then explains, as if to someone particularly slow: “He thinks you’re not into guys. Said you kept calling him mate, and everything, and being chummy with him when he tried to get close.”

Harry can’t help it, he lets out a bark of near-hysterical laughter. Zayn actually jumps, he’s so alarmed.

“Harry, what the _fuck_ is going on?” Zayn asks, sounding almost as hopelessly confused.

“Zayn, of course I’m into Lou--I’ve been crazy about him since First Year,” Harry says. “I thought he was going for one of the guys on the Quidditch team. I thought we could only _be_ mates.”

Zayn blinks very rapidly in confusion, before he says, like it’s just dawning on him. “You’re both absolute idiots.”

Harry lets out one bark of laughter, because it’s true, he is such an _idiot,_ and then another, because _holy fuck,_ Louis wants him back, and then another because the match starts in five minutes and if Louis feels half as poorly as Harry’s felt all day, if Harry doesn’t clear this up as quickly as possible, England is well and truly fucked.

“Harry?” Zayn asks. “Harry, are you alright?”

“Alright?” Harry echoes. Harry feels like all nine planets and forty-four moons, like all the stars in the Milky Way, like all the galaxies in the Universe. “I’m. I’m _brilliant_.”

 _We’re both absolute idiots_.

“Okay,” Zayn says slowly. “Do you think you could…make Louis be brilliant?”

Harry _hopes_ he can. Harry hopes they can be brilliant together.

“I can try,” he says honestly, and Zayn gives him one last look before pushing the door open.

The technical area is sparse, with ten or so chairs lined up for the reserves that look out onto the pitch, a table for water, and a few medics and higher-ups milling about. For a team that’s about to go out and play the final match of the World Cup, England is disturbingly dispersed; Harry was sure he’d find Wood giving one of his legendary pep talks in the centre of the wooden floor, his team gathered around him, but instead, everybody seems to be in their own zone. Payne is pacing the floor, hands clasped behind his back, Bell and Teasdale are huddled together in a corner, their heads bent in some kind of prayer, Ramsey is sat with his head in his hands, taking what appear to be deep yoga breaths, Wood is standing by the platform where the team will line up soon, looking like he’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders, and Edwards is leaning against the door to the toilets, tapping her foot nervously. Everybody looks up when the door opens, but nobody seems to pay Harry any mind, all too lost in their own thoughts to care.

Zayn leads Harry quickly across the room, over to Edwards. She kisses Zayn on the cheek distractedly. "This him, then?" she whispers. 

Zayn nods. “It’s all sorted,” Zayn murmurs. “They’re both idiots, like I said. Harry thinks he can fix it though.”

“Try to fix it,” Harry corrects, just as softly, because that’s a bit of pressure to put on a bloke, isn’t it?

Edwards gives Harry a small smile, though the creases of worry between her eyebrows remain. “Hi, I’m Perrie,” she introduces herself, stepping away from the door a bit, and sticking her hand out. “Sorry to have to pull you into this, but we might as well try everything we can, right? I hope we’ll get a chance to meet properly soon, under less dire circumstances.”

“Harry,” he introduces himself. “It’s not a problem.”

Perrie jerks her thumb behind her shoulder, in the direction of the door to the toilets. “He’s in there.”

“Thanks,” Harry says.

“Good luck!” Zayn gives him a thumbs up, and then Harry is swinging the door to the toilets open, and slipping inside.

Louis is on the floor, in full uniform, broom propped up against the sink. He’s pulling toilet paper apart into little shreds, but when the door opens and he looks up and sees Harry, he totally freezes.

Harry can relate. Every poetic declaration of affection flies out of his head when he sees Louis sat on the tile, looking so impossibly nervous, and all Harry can think to say is.

“You _otter_ get out there and play this match.”

Louis blinks at him in shock for a full thirty seconds, and Harry doesn’t blame him. Harry’s shocked at himself, Niall’s words ringing in his ears-- _time and a place, Harry_ \--and he wants to melt into the wall he’s leaning against until--

Louis laughs.

He doesn’t throw his head back and roar with it, or anything, but his weak chuckle gives Harry enough courage to cross the room and carefully fold himself onto the floor beside Louis, placing a tentative hand on Louis’s knee. Louis looks up, surprised, but Harry doesn’t answer his unspoken question--not yet, anyways.

“It’s okay to be nervous,” Harry says sincerely, looking Louis right in the eyes, because Louis could go out there and forget how to fly and Harry would still think Louis was the bee’s knees.

“There are so many people, Haz,” Louis says, like he’s halfway broken. “So many people I’ve got to impress, and so many people I’ll let down.”

“You don’t have to impress _anyone_ ,” Harry says, surprising himself with his own fierceness.

“But I do,” Louis shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair. “You don’t understand, Harry, there are scouts and managers and fans and Zayn and Wood and you and--” Louis cuts himself off, but it’s too late, Harry’s already heard him. His eyes go wide, but Harry’s hand tightens on his knee, as if to say _trust me_.

“You do _not_ ,” Harry says meaningfully, “have to impress me.”

Louis blushes bright crimson and looks down at his small mountain of shredded toilet paper. “I know,” he whispers, sounding even worse off. “I’m sorry, if I’ve come on too strong, I know you’re not interested, I’ll stop.”

“No, Lou, please, you don’t get it,” Harry presses, a little desperate. “Look at me, Louis, please.”

Slowly, Louis raises his eyes to meet Harry’s.

“You don’t have to impress me,” Harry enunciates, laying it all out on the table. “Because I’m already starstruck.”

And before Louis can blink, before he can take the words in and interpret them in ways Harry didn’t mean, before any more misunderstandings or conflicts or mixups, Harry surges forward to kiss him.

It’s hot and sticky in the technical area toilets, and Harry’s covered in body paint and draped in the union jack and Louis has two minutes before he has to go out and play the World Cup Final, but it is, undoubtedly, the best kiss of Harry’s life. Louis’s lips are thin and demanding, and when he pulls Harry’s bottom lip between his sharp little teeth in an impatient question and Harry responds by opening up, Louis tastes of spearmint and cigarettes and everything Harry’s wanted since he was eleven years old.

When they break apart, lively Irish step music is pouring through the cracks in the door--the Irish mascot, the leprechaun, is already dancing, and Louis should’ve been lined up with his team thirty seconds ago.

“What--” Louis starts.

“Shh,” Harry shuts him up with another kiss, this one short and sweet. “We’ll talk after the match.”

“Right,” Louis nods, resting his forehead against Harry’s, like it belongs there.

“For now, though,” Harry says. “I think…I think you otter get going.”

***

**Sunday, Four Years Later**

***

Harry wakes up tied to his own bed.

It’s not the first time this month--Louis has been so anxious, what with the lead up to the Cup, and he’s let out most of his pent up energy on an extremely appreciative Harry--and so Harry just stretches the best he can, yawns, and tries to settle back down, keeping his eyes squeezed shut. The sun is peaking through the blinds and turning the light behind Harry’s eyelids red, but they’d gotten in quite late last night, and so Harry would like to get as much sleep as he can.

Louis, it turns out, has no such concerns.

“Get _up_ , lazybum,” Louis pokes Harry’s side, hard. “I’ve been waiting for forever.”

“Mmm,” Harry hums, not opening his eyes. “Good morning to you as well, darling.”

In an instant, there’s a weight on top of him that hadn’t been there before, and Louis is straddling Harry’s hips, his hands warm on Harry’s chest and his bum snug against Harry’s cock. Harry may have been sleeping just seconds before, but his cock is already perking up in interest--how could it not, Harry’s married to the fittest Quidditch player in history. “It _is_ a good morning,” Louis murmurs into Harry’s ear, fluttering his hands down Harry’s chest and pausing to brush his thumbs over Harry’s nipples. “You want to know why?”

Harry knows why, of course, even in his half-asleep state, but Louis’s voice sounds so nice in the mornings, because it gets all syrupy and slow and his vowels all slur together and Harry just loves him a lot.

“Why?” he asks, playing along.

“Well, maybe it’s because I won the World Cup for England yesterday,” Louis starts, rolling his hips down so that Harry’s semi rubs against his bare arse and so that Louis’s already hard cock pokes Harry’s stomach. “Or maybe it’s because I’m still a little drunk.” He tangles one hand in Harry’s hair and tugs, and Harry lets out a little gasp. “Or maybe it’s because I woke up to the most gorgeous boy in the world.” He kisses Harry soft and sweet, a contrast to how he’s started grinding down onto Harry’s fattening cock in earnest, slow and filthy. “Or maybe it’s because I get to tie him up and ride his face until he can’t breathe.” Harry keens as Louis bites the column of Harry’s neck hard enough to sting, then licks over it soothingly. “Or maybe it’s because I know he’ll make me breakfast after.”

Harry grinds up instinctively and opens his eyes slowly, a lazy grin spreading over his face when he takes in his surroundings.

He’s in he and Louis’s king size bed, soft white sheets against his back and walls painted the colour of the ocean, and the ropes binding him are silky and deliciously tight against his wrists. From here, he can see the daily clutter of their lives--Louis’s Quidditch robes flung carelessly over the chair in the corner of their room, a takeaway box from before they left for the Cup that Harry had been too overwhelmed to clean up, a bookshelf of dusty old volumes, all of which Zayn’s given to Harry for further reading and only half of which Harry’s read. Moving pictures of the last four years are propped up on the wardrobe--him and Louis kissing in the stands after the World Cup match four years ago, neither of them caring very much that England lost, so long as they had each other; Niall hoisting the prize for most shots done in a row at the Leaky Cauldron above his head while Louis and Zayn cheer him on; Harry and Louis dancing at the Ministry Ball last summer; Louis helping Theo up onto his starter broom; Zayn, Niall, and Harry with their heads thrown back in laughter at _The Quibbler_ holiday party the year Zayn came on as Editor; Harry and Louis at a Muggle footy match at Old Trafford; Harry and Louis kissing atop the Astronomy Tower after Louis proposed; Harry and Louis kissing by the water in Shetland at their wedding three months ago. Harry loves their room, loves the home that they’ve created together, loves Louis.

Louis, atop Harry and freshly damp from a shower, is the softest, most beautiful sight of all. His hair was cut short at the start of the season and is just now growing out, so it doesn’t yet fall to cover up his bright blue eyes, and he’s gloriously naked but for a worn-out pair of soft green socks with multi-coloured gems knit onto them, his lithe, strong body covered in golden skin and tattoos and lovebites--some fading, some dark and new, all Harry’s.

“Hi,” Harry murmurs happily, craning his neck up as far as he can for a kiss. Louis gets the message and laughs, ducking down to brush his lips against Harry’s again.

“Hi,” he whispers back, before slotting their lips together for real, nibbling gently on Harry’s lower lip and carding a hand through Harry’s hair. They snog lazily in bed for a while, simply enjoying their time alone. It's been limited as of late, because Louis has been training so hard for the Cup, and while Harry’s absolutely thrilled that Louis won, he’s equally thrilled that it means that he gets to have his husband back.

Louis licks into Harry’s mouth with practised ease, sliding his tongue against Harry’s, and under the taste of their mint toothpaste Harry can still make out the a sour hint of last night’s whiskey. They set a slow rhythm, grinding against each other lazily, and Harry’s nearly dizzy with it, wants Louis to cover him up completely and turn him inside out.

“What was that you said about riding my face?” Harry whispers against Louis’s lips after a while. Louis laughs into his mouth.

“Someone’s eager.”

“You’re the one who tied me up while I was sleeping,” Harry points out.

“Just to expedite the process,” Louis says innocently, and Harry has to kiss him again, because he’s so ridiculous.

“I don’t mind, obviously,” Harry grinds his hips up to prove a point, and Louis gasps prettily when Harry’s cock rubs between his cheeks. “Said I’d do it if you won, didn’t I? As a prize?”

“You’d have done it if I lost, too,” Louis says.

“Very true,” Harry nips at Louis’s lips, and Louis indulges him with more kisses for a second before he slowly raises himself up, gazing down at Harry with such a fond expression that Harry squirms in the sheets.

“You’re so beautiful,” Louis tells him softly, reaching out a hand to caress Harry’s cheek.

Harry beams up at him. “Sit on my face, please,” he asks politely.

Louis throws back his head and laughs, ducking down to press one more quick kiss to Harry’s lips before he flips around so that his back is to the headboard and scoots back along Harry’s chest, bending down to pepper Harry’s torso with tiny kisses as he does so. It gives Harry a great view of Louis’s perfectly round arse, and Harry can’t help but whine a little as Louis scrapes his nails along Harry’s thighs.

“Ready?” Louis asks gently, kneeling with his legs on either side of Harry’s torso, his feet tucked under Harry’s bound arms.

“Born ready,” Harry huffs impatiently, and Louis twists both of Harry’s nipples and lowers himself down onto Harry’s face.

Harry loves eating Louis out, loves spreading him apart and licking in deep, so that Louis is wet and squirming and panting out Harry’s name. Once, Harry licked him out for two hours straight, Louis’s thighs tight around his ears and Louis’s hands twisted in his hair, and Louis had come three times, once with two of Harry’s fingers in his arse alongside his tongue, once with Harry’s fist circled loosely around his dick, and once untouched, tear tracks matting his eyelashes making the prettiest sounds Harry’s ever heard.

Now, though, Harry’s hands are bound to the headboard behind his head, so there’s nothing much to do but bury his entire face in Louis’s arse. Louis smells clean, like the lemon soap Harry buys wholesale at a Muggle body shop in Paris, and Harry can’t get enough. He wastes no time in getting Louis wet, like he knows Louis likes, mouthing wetly at Louis’s hole as Louis gently rocks against his face, balancing himself with his hands on Harry’s abs. It’s hot and Harry can’t breathe very well and there’s saliva everywhere, but he can feel Louis’s thighs trembling around him, and he can hear, very faintly, Louis’s low groans.

“Yeah, baby, feels so good,” he’s mumbling, his breathing coming out slow and heavy. “Getting me so wet, love your mouth.”

Harry’s got his mouth too full of Louis to properly respond, so he licks a fat stripe across Louis’s hole, deliberate as he can do when he’s tied up and Louis is using his mouth to get off.

“Fuck,” Louis groans. “Again, c’mon, H, want you inside me.”

Louis doesn’t make it easy. He’ll keep himself elevated enough that Harry has to crane his neck to lick into him properly, to feel Louis clench around his tongue, but he’ll let himself fall once Harry’s found any sort of rhythm, crashing back down so that all Harry can do is push his face desperately into Louis’s arse and kiss and suck and bite and lick anywhere he can get to. Sometimes, for several glorious seconds, Louis will grind down and keep grinding down, all but cutting off Harry’s air supply. Louis hasn’t even touched Harry yet, and Harry’s so hard he might cry.

Louis splays his fingers out along Harry’s chest and drums them gently, beating out a slow beat against Harry’s skin that goes along in time when Louis starts rising and falling in rhythm. Harry, knowing what Louis wants now, stiffens his tongue as best he can and groans helplessly into Louis’s arse when Louis starts to rise and fall expertly, throwing his head back and gasping, riding Harry’s tongue, at first at a slow, measured pace, but then at an increasingly frantic speed.

“Fuck, H, shit shit shit,” Louis chants, when Harry’s tongue presses what must be maddeningly close to his prostate.

Love you so much, Harry wants to say, so he presses a gentle bite to the inside of Louis’s thigh the next time that Louis rises up, and then stiffens up again, letting Louis use his face in whatever way he so chooses.

“Fuck, Harry, you’re doing so well,” Louis praises. “Wanna try something, baby, alright? But don’t come, remember, that’s the rule.”

Harry nods and whines into Louis’s arse, and then licks into him with renewed purpose, anticipation bubbling in his veins. Still, even after Louis has found his rhythm again, nothing could have prepared Harry for the feeling of Louis leaning forward to take Harry’s cock in his hand and tongue at his slit, not when Louis’s arse is still right in Harry’s face.

“Fuck,” Harry cries out, but it’s muffled against Louis’s hole, and the vibrations make Louis moan, and wrap his lips around the head of Harry’s cock and suck, bobbing up and down slowly until he’s taking Harry down until his lips meet his hand. It’s so overwhelming, and Harry’s straining against the ropes binding him, eager to slide his hands all over Louis’s skin and pull him even closer, eager to buck his hips up off the bet and into the tight, hot heat of Louis’s mouth, but this is about _Louis_ getting off, it’s about Louis using Harry’s body to feel as good as he makes Harry feel every second of every day.

Louis pulls his mouth off of Harry with a wet pop, resting his forehead against Harry’s hipbone. “Staying so still for me,” he whispers reverently into Harry’s skin. “So proud of you, love. Think you’re ready for me to ride you?”

Harry answers by tilting his head even further up, trying to bury himself as deep in Louis as he possibly can, and Louis lets out a laugh that cuts off into a high-pitched moan when Harry starts wiggling his tongue around in Louis’s tight hole.

“Fuck, yeah, Harry,” Louis whines, momentarily distracted from his master plan and raising himself up a bit so he can grind back against Harry’s mouth. “Fuck, please, don’t stop--”

Harry doesn’t stop, not when Louis starts grinding back on him in slow circles, not when Louis digs his blunt nails into Harry’s ribcage, and certainly not when Louis gets one hand around Harry and starts pulling him off, balancing himself completely on his strong thighs. Louis’s hand moves easily along Harry’s shaft, wet from precome and the blowjob earlier.

“You think you’ve got me--oh, fuck--you think you’ve got me wet enough, love?” Louis pants out after a while of riding Harry’s face extra hard and wanking him off.“’M so hard, you’re so good, need you inside me soon. Not gonna--yeah, again, right there, H--not gonna--oh--last.”

Harry’s too spacey to do anything but groan into Louis’s arsehole, but Louis seems to gain some of his bearings again, and he slowly climbs off of Harry’s face, Harry trying to follow him helplessly as he goes. Louis laughs a little breathlessly when he turns around to face Harry again, and Harry knows what he must look like, knows his face must be red and shiny with spit and his lips impossibly swollen, but Louis looks even better, his pupils completely blown with lust and his cock thick and pink and _dripping_ precome.

“Love you,” Harry hears himself saying, and then Louis is smiling the most brilliant smile in the world and bending down to mash his lips against Harry’s, sloppy and still beaming.

“Love you, too,” Louis says softly. “A whole lot.”

Harry’s cock is wet from Louis’s mouth and Louis’s hole wet and open from Harry’s, but Louis still reaches over to the bedside table and to wave his wand, casting a wordless lubrication spell. Harry watches Louis’s face screw up a little as his insides loosen up and cool down, hears the little catch in his breath, and then Louis is back to beaming down at Harry, sliding further down Harry’s torso until he’s properly lined up with Harry’s cock, and then sinking down, slowly, artfully.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Louis groans as he slowly fills himself up with Harry, and Harry lets out a high noise of agreement as Louis’s walls clench greedily around his cock, swallowing him up. Louis wriggles around for only a few seconds before the head of Harry’s cock must nudge up against his prostate, because he gasps in total bliss and grinds his hips down forcefully in figure eights, barely rising up and down at all.

Harry’s so keyed up, from Louis catching the snitch and winning the game and the Cup and from Louis tying him up and Louis riding his face and from Louis sucking him off _while_ riding his face and from Louis taking Harry’s cock like he was _born_ to do it, just one, two, three gentle rocks of Louis’s hips have Harry gritting his teeth together.

“’M gonna come, Lou,” Harry forces out.

Louis wraps a hand around his own cock and starts to pull himself off, deft twists of his wrists that go double-time with the movements of his hips against Harry’s. “Me--me too, H, fuck--”

They come together, Harry crying out as he spills into Louis and Louis chanting Harry’s name as he comes all over Harry’s chest.

“Shit,” Louis breathes, flopping down on top of Harry. It’s sticky from their sweat and come, and Harry feels his softening cock slowly slide out of Louis. All of the sudden, the restraints holding Harry back and keeping him from touching Louis are absolutely awful, but Louis knows that Harry’s favourite thing to do after sex is hold Louis tight, and so, before he settles, he reaches again to the table, grabs his wand, and murmurs ‘ _finite incantatem_ ’. The ropes holding Harry’s hands up to the headboard fall away, and Harry stretches his arms up towards the ceiling, gives his wrists a few good rolls, and then gathers Louis up in his arms.

“Congratulations, darling,” Harry whispers into Louis’s hair. “You did it.”

Louis hums happily against Harry’s chest, his head resting right over Harry’s heart. “Thank you,” he whispers. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

Harry presses a kiss to Louis’s sweaty forehead. “Happy to help in whatever way I could.”

“Oh, you’re not done yet, don’t make it past tense,” Louis laughs tiredly, nuzzling his head deeper into Harry’s chest. “We can have a ten minute breather, and then it’s time for round two.”

“Round two?” Harry teases. “I don’t recall agreeing to a round two.”

Louis shrugs, shoulders rubbing against Harry’s chest. “You don’t really have a say in it,” he says. “I’ve already filled the bath with Galleons.”

Harry _giggles_. “Your winnings have already been transferred?”

“No, silly, the match weren’t even twenty-four hours ago,” Louis yawns. “I just took the same amount out of our account so it’ll feel like I’m fucking you on my winnings.”

“Fair enough,” Harry says, flinging an arm out to grab a corner of the duvet and dragging it over him and Louis. “Ten minute rest then.”

“Can you--”

“Course.”

Harry slides his own wand out from under the pillow and moves it through the air in a well-practised swirling motion. The blinds squeeze closed tightly, and the room goes much darker, the perfect charcoal grey for a nap.

The glow in the dark stars they’ve pressed on the ceiling in the form of Orion’s belt shine dimly down on them, and Harry feels like he’s at peace.

“I love you to infinity and beyond,” he whispers to Louis, as they drift off.

“To the moon and back,” Louis hums in agreement. “And faster and faster.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! say hi on [tumblr](http://www.tequilila.tumblr.com)! xx


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